


Sin's A Good Man's Brother

by SnitchesAndTalkers



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco, Paramore
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Twins, Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Anal Sex, Angst, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Group Sex, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Masturbation, Multi, Oral Sex, Peterick, Rough Sex, Smut, Sorry Andy, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Threesome, What Have I Done, brentrick, so much sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-16
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-11-14 23:07:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 70,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11218122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnitchesAndTalkers/pseuds/SnitchesAndTalkers
Summary: “He's… Sort of a dick.” The kid whispers. But he doesn't sound annoyed, he sounds fucking impressed.“Not how you imagined him?” Patrick asks kindly, hauling him to his feet.“No.” His grin widens as he watches Martin swagger ahead of them. “Better.”So, what if Patrick had an identical twin? A rock and roll, bad boy twin. Martin is everything Patrick isn't; dangerous, cold, beautiful and with an ability to suck anything good from his brother's life. He's getting more out of control by the day. Strap yourselves in kids, things are going to getdark.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuse for this. There's... There's more. I'm just gauging reactions here. So, what if Patrick had a twin?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Accompanying artwork is by the immensely talented Das_verlorene_Kind. Please go to her blog at http://das-verlorene-kind.tumblr.com/ and take a look at all of her other incredible work!

"Dude, your brother is a fucking _dick_ ," Pete snaps, dropping down onto the couch next to Patrick.

"I know," Patrick sighs. "I just... I know."

Pete groans and presses his thumbs into his eyes, clearly trying to soothe the pounding headache that Patrick frequently experiences when he tries to deal with anything Martin-related. Which seems to happen a lot. Probably something to do with him being a dick. 

"You couldn't have slipped the umbilical cord around his neck and squeezed?" Pete groans plaintively.

"You really think _I'd_ have done better in a foetal grudge match?" Patrick raises an eyebrow lazily. Pete runs a casual eye over him and Patrick knows what he's seeing; Patrick in his dad sweater and battered cap, a few pounds above his fighting weight, the thick glasses. And he knows he's picturing Martin in his mind's eye; all leather jackets and skinny jeans and a body toned from drumming and too much crossfit. Still has to wear a hat though because male pattern baldness is a fucking bitch like that. Of course Martin chose a fedora, which Patrick is sure would have made him look ridiculous but Martin pulls it off. Is it possible to be jealous of how your identical twin looks?

"Okay, maybe not. Could you deal with him please?"

"Drunk? High?" Patrick raises his eyebrows questioningly as he pulls to his feet. 

"Definitely one of those. Maybe both. I don't know." Pete is nipping the bridge of his nose and breathing through his mouth. Patrick had to get stuck in a band with two divas. They should just fuck it out or something. But then, as Pete is wont to point out, Patrick was the one that suggested Martin when they needed a drummer so all of this is technically his fault...

He sighs as he stands and makes his way down the hallway to the green room. He can hear shouting before he even gets close. There isn't even anyone else _in_ there, who the fuck is he screaming at? He opens the door cautiously, ducking and slamming it closed again as a Johnnie Walker bottle explodes against the wall by his head.

"What the fucking _fuck_ , Martin?" He bellows, shoving the door open once again and staring at his brother incredulously. 

"Thought you were Wentz," Martin grins broadly showing off very straight, very white teeth as he reclines back on the sofa. His legs are spread, feet planted squarely, arms stretched out along the back of the cushions. 

"Oh, that's okay then." He heaves a sigh as his brother gives him the finger. "You take this rockstar shit awfully seriously, don't you?"

"Come on baby brother," Martin gestures expansively at the assortment of alcohol laid out for them, his black shirt rucking up a little and exposing his stomach. "Have a drink with me."

"You're literally seven minutes older." But Patrick does as he's told, grabs a beer and joins Martin on the couch. It's absolutely not fair that he's drinking his first beer of the year, that he goes to bed early even on show nights and yet he has laughter lines gathering at the corner of his eyes whilst Martin is as smooth skinned as when they were twenty-five. Presumably he's embalmed himself in whiskey and cocaine. 

"What did Pete do?" 

"Oh, I don't know." Martin shrugs and grins again. "I just like fucking with him."

"It's been sixteen years, isn't that, I dunno man, getting a bit old now?" 

"We should go out," Martin opines, drumming a beat on his knees. He drums on everything. It's really fucking annoying at times. "We haven't gotten laid in forever."

"We? Is this a team sport?" Patrick's getting pissy. "And you're married."

Martin snorts in the back of his nose, his grin getting a little wider, a little predatory. "We used to do it together."

"Don't be disgusting," Patrick snaps, considering the consequences of hurling one of the empty liquor bottles at his twin. 

"You used to be fun." 

"You used to be a normal person." The words taste a little sour on Patrick's tongue.

"Oh come _on_ ," Martin grabs him into headlock. Patrick goes limp. There's no point fighting back. "We'll go get wasted! It'll be _fun_!"

"You said that in Phoenix and you left me in a public park with no pants."

"It was _fun_!" Martin squeezes his neck, he coughs.

"I have no idea how Hayley puts up with you," Patrick grumbles, referencing Martin's beautiful, extremely long suffering wife. She'd been Patrick's girlfriend to start but then... Well. He'd been brought up to share with his brother and somehow he'd taken her away. Martin was fun, she'd told him, Martin smiled more. Yeah, he's over it. "You gonna let go of my head?"

"What? Oh!" Patrick sucks in a deep breath once his brother's forearm is no longer lodged against his windpipe and, against his better judgement, utters the words he just knows he's going to regret in the morning. 

"Okay. Fine. We'll go out."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so to clarify; Patrick is current Patrick as we know and love him. Martin is Save Rock and Roll Patrick but a little more buff. Brendon is twenty. Because I said he is.
> 
> Accompanying artwork is by the immensely talented Das_verlorene_Kind. Please go to her blog at http://das-verlorene-kind.tumblr.com/ and take a look at all of her other incredible work!

The kid is fucking hot.

He's scene as hell with his straightened bangs, eyeliner smudged and smoky around deep, dark eyes. He's in jeans so tight it's a wonder he can move and a red dress shirt, half untucked. He has a dangerous smile that sort of reminds Patrick of Martin when he was younger. Or maybe someone else. Someone he doesn't want to think about.

Did he say his name was Landon? No, Brandon, maybe? Something-don. Patrick supposes it doesn't really matter as long as he keeps his hand on his cock.

"Seriously, aside from me you're the best looking guy in here," Martin smirks, flicking a glance at Patrick's crotch. 

"Aside from you? What about him?" The kid presses his palm a little more firmly against Patrick's jeans. He knocks back his whiskey to drown the groan. "Aren't the two of you identical?"

"I guess on a technical level..." Patrick should be offended. _Wants_ to be offended. But the kid is rubbing at his dick like the world will stop spinning if he lets go.

"I can't believe I'm being hit on by the fucking Stumph twins," the kid is almost vibrating with excitement. Patrick doesn't actually feel he's doing much of the hitting. He's just drinking whiskey and having his cock stroked. Nice though. "I had no fucking idea the two of you were into guys. I'd have made more effort to go to your shows…"

"He's into guys," Martin points at Patrick. 

"And girls," Patrick points out weakly. Anyone who'll have him, he thinks pathetically. No one's listening to him anyway.

" _I'm_ just into fucking," Martin shrugs.

"Aren't you married?" Patrick watches the kid's dark eyes drop to Martin's left hand and the white gold band on his third finger. Good that he's not the only person that needs to remind him sometimes.

"Do you want to fuck or not?" Martin rolls his eyes and drains his drink. "Because, and I don't mean to brag, I could find someone else pretty quick..."

He's not even kidding. For a little guy he commands the attention of every person in every room he walks into, always has. Patrick's usually happy to bask in the reflection but it can get a little wearing talking to someone and having them constantly looking over his shoulder for his brother. Although right now he's just happy to feel a warm hand on his cock because fuck it must have been three months since he last got off under anything other than his own steam.

"No, no," the kid grins widely and knocks back his beer. “So, how're we gonna do this?”

Patrick releases a long breath as the warm hand is withdrawn from his lap, the younger man's brown eyes wide as he stares at Martin. Patrick's still not sure he's drunk enough for this. Yeah, it was sort of their thing when they were young and stupid, when he didn't care _how_ he got his dick sucked and doing it with Martin just made it easier because then he didn't have to approach anyone, his brother did it all for him. But… He's thirty-three. He should have found someone by now, _he_ should be the one with a wedding ring on his finger.

He watches as Martin pulls out his wallet, yanks out a handful of twenties and presses them into the kid's hand under the bar.

“Go get a cab. Tip the driver to wait and we'll follow you out in ten minutes.”

“Are you guys just fucking with me?” The kid looks sceptical. Patrick wonders absently how old he is. He looks about twenty. Almost jailbait. “What if I'm just left sitting in a fucking cab, looking like a dick?”

“Then you're about two-hundred dollars up with a story to tell,” Martin points out, shooing him away like an irritating child. “Go. Fuck off.”

The kid makes his way out of the bar, casting a last glance back at them before he disappears out of the door. Martin grins at Patrick, punches him on the shoulder. It's supposed to be friendly but it sort of hurts and Patrick winces then scowls. 

“So,” Martin reclines back against the bar, one boot kicked up against it. “Happy now?”

“Oh, never fucking better.” Patrick takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. 

“I promised you _fun_ ,” Martin points out. “You sure as shit seemed to be having fun when he was jerking you off.”

“How… How old is he?”

“I dunno. Looks legal. Older than we were when we started doing this.” Martin's logic and reasoning are so off it's fucking unreal. “What? You want to see his drivers licence before he sucks your dick?”

“Hmm.” Patrick catches the bartender's eye and raises his empty glass. Within moments a fresh drink is placed in front of him and he knocks it back with a gasp. His tolerance is shot, unlike Martin who may or may not have a little blood still left in his alcohol stream. “Okay. Fuck it. Let's go.”

“'Atta boy!”

The cab ride is a bit of a blur for Patrick. Martin talks to the driver about… something, Patrick's not sure what. It's difficult to concentrate when the kid, sitting between them, has his jeans unfastened and his hand inside, pulling at Patrick's cock with firm, languid strokes. He wants to kiss him, he has full, soft looking lips and it's been a while since he's tasted someone else's mouth but the cab driver is _right there_ … 

He becomes aware of the kid – seriously, he should find out his name, but it seems kind of rude to ask at this point – making little gasping groans, of his hand faltering against his cock. He rolls his head to the left against the headrest, the kid has his head tipped back, eyes closed, lips slightly parted. Further across the seat Martin is grinning at him in the gloom, his eyes and teeth catching what little light there is as he nods down to the kid's lap. Patrick lets his eyes drop down and sure enough, Martin has his hand in the kid's jeans and those things are _tight_ , there must be barely any room to manoeuvre in there but he seems to be managing, his wrist flicking back and forth slowly.

Outside the hotel Martin pays the cab driver, tips generously which to Patrick, as he struggles to tuck his stiff dick back into his jeans, seems only fair. Martin talks music as they walk through the lobby. Loudly. Nothing to see, just the Stumph twins discussing demos with a young musician as they make their way to the elevator. As soon as the doors slide closed, the kid is on his knees and frantically pulling at Martin's zipper, yanking out his cock – still only semi hard – and sitting back on his heels with a low gasp. 

“You're… That's fucking _huge_.” He sounds enraptured as he watches Martin grow hard under his gaze, his cock curving up, thick and heavy. Patrick leans back against the elevator wall, rubbing at his own cock through his jeans as he watches him lean in and suck slowly on the head of Martin's dick. It's basically his own cock, same DNA, so it's not weird, right? 

Martin doesn't make a sound, barely reacts in fact, just reclines back against the wall and watches the kid impassively, arms folded across his chest. Patrick wants to grab him and pull him onto his own cock, to assure him he'll be impressed, he'll make all the right noises, fuck he'll probably come in about two minutes if the kid really wants an ego boost. But he stays quiet and shoves his hand into his shorts, tugging at his cock as he watches.

The door pings, a robotic voice announces that they're on the fifty-second floor and Martin shoves the kid back by the shoulder, tucking himself away in one fluid, practised motion before striding away down the hallway. Patrick smiles at the younger guy in a manner he hopes is reassuring and not just lecherous. 

“He's… Sort of a dick.” The kid whispers. But he doesn't sound annoyed, he sounds fucking impressed.

“Not how you imagined him?” Patrick asks kindly, hauling him to his feet. 

“No.” His grin widens as he watches Martin swagger ahead of them. “Better.”

Patrick rolls his eyes. Fucking kids. No, literally, this is why Martin likes fucking kids. They're impressed by his douchebag routine when anyone his own age would tell him to take his ego and jam it sideways up his ass. He considers grabbing the kid by the hand, asking him if he just wants to come back to his suite. Just the two of them. It's a nice suite, with great views of The Strip, there's champagne in the mini bar, they could have a lot of fun. Without Martin.

“Are you assholes coming or not?”

The kid hurries after him and Patrick realises the moment is lost. If it was ever there at all. He saunters after them, he won't fucking rush even if his cock is so hard it's actually starting to ache. By the time he joins them and closes the door the kid is already at the window, staring down at the city below him, brown eyes wide.

“This is a fancy ass room,” he mutters.

“I'm a fancy ass guy,” Martin drawls, taking off his fedora and setting it down on the coffee table.

“Can I… Get anyone a drink?” Patrick asks softly. “Beer? Or… Or maybe a Coke?”

“A fucking _Coke_?” Martin smirks. “My brother the fucking rock star. Patrick, you're not the fucking butler. Kid?”

“Uh… Brendon.” Brendon points out quietly, like he's not sure if he should or not. Martin curls his lip derisively and wrinkles his nose, waving his hand impatiently. As if it matters to him.

“Brendon, whatever. Suck his dick or something,” he points at Patrick. “I just need to…”

Martin trails off as he leaves the living room for the bedroom, shucking off his jacket and tossing it across the couch as he goes. Patrick stares at Brendon. Brendon looks back at Patrick, his face unreadable as he slides his eyes down to the bulge straining the front of Patrick's jeans.

“I mean… You don't have to.” Patrick shrugs helplessly. “It wasn't like… An order or anything.”

“Why wouldn't I want to?” Brendon's voice is a low rasp as he stalks towards Patrick. Patrick finds himself backing up , a little intimidated by this kid with his dark eyes and dark hair and ridiculous dress shirt over his skin tight jeans, his hands behind his back, stopping only when he bumps up against the wall. Brendon keeps coming, pressing up close until there's no more than two or three inches between them, dark eyes burning into Patrick's blue ones. “You're hot as fuck.”

“I… Uh… I'm not really-… Oh Jesus,” Patrick's stammering trails off as Brendon slides to his knees in front of him and pulls him out of his shorts and slides his hot, wet mouth down over his cock. Oh fuck, Brendon has a mouth that was fucking _made_ for sucking dick and Patrick feels his knees go weak as he palms uselessly at the back of Brendon's head. He can hear himself making little humming sounds, knows he's pressing chords into Brendon's skull with his right hand, his left tapping out a bass line as that wonderful mouth takes him down, further and further until Brendon's nose is pressed to the copper-coloured hair at the base of his cock.

“You want me to finger you?” Brendon pulls off for a moment, dark eyes peering at him from under thick, soft lashes.

“Yes. Oh fuck, yes,” Patrick sighs, tightening his fingers in Brendon's hair and pulling him back onto his cock. Brendon complies willingly. “But… Not yet. Just… Keep sucking.”

In truth, Patrick knows he'll come too fast if Brendon touches him just yet, he needs to reacquaint himself with the feeling of someone else touching him, needs a few minutes to gather himself. He starts to guide Brendon up and down his cock, slow and steady, eyes screwed closed as the kid curves his tongue around his shaft on each downward stroke, does this delicious soft, swirly thing on the way back up. Patrick sags back against the wall, sighing dreamily as his strokes his fingers through Brendon's dark hair. It's the wrong shade, he decides, it should be black and not just deep mahogany, but the cut is similar so if he keeps his eyes half closed it's almost right. The eyes aren't quite right either, as richly dark as his hair rather than deep amber but… They're still dark and that's close enough.

“Fuck yeah. Now it's a party.” Patrick starts a little at the sound of Martin's voice, groaning as Brendon releases his dick with an audible pop. He hears Brendon moan below him as he glances back over his shoulder because Martin is sprawled across the couch, his shirt tight and clinging to his stomach and chest, the sleeves rolled up to reveal his biceps, his tapestry of tattoos on display; two full sleeves in tasteful monochrome. The neck of the shirt is all stretched out of shape, designed that way to look rough and casual and give an enticing little glimpse of chest hair a little darker than the strawberry blond of his bangs and yet more tattoos. His cock is out again and grasped in his right hand, flushed pink and pretty and identical to the one Brendon just had in his mouth so Patrick's not sure why the kid looks so fucking eager to get his hands on it.

Patrick can see Martin's pupils blown black from across the room and he hasn't done a great job of wiping away the white residue from around his left nostril. Patrick's not sure he's attempted to rub it away at all. He watches as Martin holds Brendon's eye contact, crooks a finger to him and Brendon crawls, he fucking _crawls_ across the carpet, ass swaying, like a fucking panther or something.

“That's it,” Martin sniggers coldly. “Come to daddy, baby boy.”

“You're fucking disgusting.” Patrick mutters under his breath. He isn't sure if he's talking to Martin or himself. He straightens up and takes a moment to clear his head, thinks about grabbing that beer he talked about earlier. Martin's raising his hips as Brendon peels off his tight black jeans. He never wears underwear so there's nothing else to deal with, just his boots to unlace which Brendon sets about doing with his teeth, much to Martin's apparent amusement. Brendon's unwrapping him like a fucking Christmas gift and Patrick wonders, if Brendon thinks he's “hot as fuck” then what, exactly, does he think of Martin. 

“Here,” Martin pushes Brendon back for a moment once his boots and jeans are removed and grabs something from the couch beside him. It's a wrap of coke, Patrick realises, watching as Martin undoes the package and smooths a hand over Brendon's hair, sliding his fingers under his chin and tipping his face up. “You want a taste, baby boy?”

Brendon nods eagerly. Martin laughs again, tips the white powder onto his thigh and runs it into a rough line between his thumb and forefinger, lips curled up in a smirk as Brendon kneels between his legs, dips his head and takes it in one quick sniff, coughing a little as the powder hits the back of his throat. Brendon moves back, runs his tongue up Martin's thigh, licking away the residue and then he's sinking those lips down over his cock. 

Patrick's starting to feel a little surplus to requirements and wonders if he should just pull his pants back up and leave. He could call Hayley, it's not like Martin's going to any time soon and he misses her. He's almost decided, Martin isn't paying attention to him anyway with his head head tipped back against the couch, hips thrusting up into Brendon's mouth and hands pushing the kid down onto his cock even as he gags a little. Patrick glances up too, realises the ceiling is mirrored and rolls his eyes, Martin is _such_ a vain fucking sleazebag. 

“Trick,” Martin's voice is rough. Patrick pauses and meets his brother's eyes. “Come on man, this was supposed to be for you.”

“ _This_?” Brendon manages to gasp, pulling back for a moment. “You mean _me_ , right?”

“Do you want to argue with me about your place in the fucking universe or do you want me to fuck you?” Martin asks him with a raised eyebrow. Brendon seems to consider this for a moment before shrugging and swallowing his dick down once more. “Jesus fuck this kid loves cock. Patrick, seriously, come here.”

Patrick opens his mouth to object but then… Three months. Three fucking months. He crosses the room to them, slides to his knees behind Brendon and reaches around him, carefully unbuttoning his shirt. Brendon barely seems aware of him and maybe it's the cocaine or maybe it's just that he's completely engrossed in sucking on Martin's cock. And Martin? Well, he's just reclined back, watching in that fucking mirror with a wide smirk on his face. 

The last button slips out of it's buttonhole and Patrick's able to drag the shirt back off Brendon's shoulders, exposing a beautiful expanse of pale skin. He presses his palms flat to it, feels the muscles flex and tense underneath his hands and he's so warm and soft and Patrick can't help but lean in and press his lips, his tongue against Brendon's back. He kisses his neck, strokes his hands up and down his sides and grinds his stiff dick against Brendon's firm, tight ass, mutters softly into his ear, “You're fucking _beautiful_ , you know that, right?”

Brendon moans low in his throat in response and Martin, lower lip between his teeth, echoes the noise as Brendon's throat vibrates around his cock. Patrick leans back just long enough to slip off his own shirt so he can feel that soft, pale skin against his own and when he presses back, chest bare, it's fucking _heaven_ , warm and soft. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply, the kid even smells good, faint cigarette smoke and fresh sweat and cinnamon gum, he almost smells like-

No.

_No_. He's _not_ fucking going there.

He reaches around again and unfastens Brendon's jeans, pushing them down and over his hips, feeling his cock bounce free. He slips his hand around it and notes absently that it's a decent size and already slick with pre-come. He traces his fingertips over the veins for a second, smiles as Brendon hums his approval before choking slightly as Martin bucks his hips up in response. He starts to stroke, slow and firm, pulling his own cock clumsily out of his shorts with his left hand and pressing it to the cleft of Brendon's ass.

“You want me to fuck you?” Martin's growling softly, yanking Brendon's head up by the hair, ignoring the pained gasp.

“Oh, yes, daddy.” Brendon moans and Patrick represses the urge to roll his eyes again. 

“Does that make me Uncle Patrick?” He asks sarcastically.

“Now _that's_ fucking kinky.” Martin laughs. It's a hard, cold sound. Patrick can't remember the last time he heard his brother laugh properly. He still has Brendon by the hair, still holding him away from his cock and Patrick can only imagine how the kid's face looks right now, lips no doubt swollen and flushed, wet with spit and his eyes, well, they'll be as blown as Martin's. “Get onto the bed, kid. And get your fucking jeans off.”

Patrick moves back as Brendon stands, trails a hand down over his thigh and squeezes reassuringly. Brendon smiles at him uncertainly and Patrick was right, those lips are darkened and plump, shining under the gentle glow of the carefully set level of lighting that seems to be reserved for expensive hotel rooms. He moves away, staggering through to the bedroom and Patrick can hear denim dragging over skin as he pulls off his jeans.

“You want to fuck him?” Martin asks casually, still stroking absently at his cock. 

“No.” Patrick mutters. “I… I want him to…”

He doesn't finish the sentence, doesn't need to. Martin knows what he likes these skinny little scene kids to do to him, knows exactly who's cock he imagines as they fuck him. Martin knows the effect it has on him afterwards but he still does it, still encourages it and Patrick's too fucking weak to walk away. He jumps a little, startled, as Martin leans forward and kisses him briefly, the quickest sweep of a familiar tongue against his, the taste of bourbon on his lips and then he's standing, brushing past Patrick and heading to the bedroom after Brendon. It's unfair that he still looks good wearing nothing but a t-shirt, his ass bare and cock bouncing free. 

He closes his eyes for a moment, takes a few deep steadying breaths and then pushes himself to his feet, following them into the bedroom. Martin is leaning over the nightstand, snorting down another line, shrugging as Brendon turns down the offer of another. He doesn't offer Patrick, he knows what the answer will be. When he's done he straightens and, eyes fixed on Brendon, he crosses his arms in front of himself and slowly, deliberately, pulls his shirt up and over his head revealing each firmly muscled, beautifully inked inch of his body. Brendon _gasps_. Patrick feels like shit.

He pushes the comparisons to the back of his mind, shoves his jeans down quickly and takes a moment to admire Brendon, naked and stretched out on the mattress. He has the kind of body Patrick likes on guys, lithe and slim and there are a couple of tattoos and oh god he needs to stop drawing comparisons because he's not eighteen any more and it's just fucking creepy. He climbs onto the bed and wriggles across until they're pressed together, Brendon's cock pressed up against his, their hands wrapped together and around their shafts as they get each other off and finally, _finally_ , Patrick can lick into that mouth, taste his cock and Martin's lingering there. Because Martin's always lingering somewhere on every relationship Patrick has ever had. 

“Kid-”

“Brendon.” Patrick snaps, scowling at his brother over Brendon's shoulder. “His name is fucking _Brendon_ , asshole.”

“Who the fuck are you? His fucking wife or something?” Brendon seems content to let the argument rage over him, purring softly against Patrick's throat as they continue stroking at one another.

“Just stop being such a fucking _ass_.” He should have taken Brendon back to his room.

“Okay, whatever. Brendon. _Brendon_?” Brendon hums a response. “You're gonna fuck Patrick.”

“If you want to.” Patrick cuts in quickly but Brendon doesn't appear to require persuasion, his tongue sweeping into Patrick's mouth and it's fucking glorious to be kissed and touched by a pretty little scene boy with mischievous eyes and eager hands and he's missed it so much.

“You want to look at me?” Brendon asks, stroking Patrick's cheek softly. He leans into the contact, craves it. Nods. “Scoot up, I guess.”

Patrick does as he's told, shuffling a little further up the bed, raising his hips obediently as Brendon slides a pillow under them. He lets his legs fall open, his cock curving up to rest against his soft stomach, a drip of pre-come splashing onto his skin that Brendon wastes no time in licking up, hands braced against Patrick's knees. Their eyes meet for a moment and Brendon smiles, whispers softly, “You really are hot as fuck.”

Patrick watches as Martin hands Brendon the lube, watches him squeeze a generous amount onto his fingers then gasps and tenses as he feels those fingers pressing against his ass. He hasn't bottomed for a while, isn't used to it but Brendon is patient, gently working in a single finger as he strokes slowly at his cock with his free hand. He yelps as that finger finds his prostate and once again palms at the back of Brendon's head, urging him down and onto his cock. The poor kid is going to have a sore jaw for days but with that talented mouth working his cock he barely notices a second finger slipping in. He can't talk, can barely think any more as those fingers twist and stretch inside of him, hitting that sweet spot again and again and he squirms, tries to decide if he should press closer for more or move away because it's too much, too fucking much… 

“One more, okay?” Brendon pulls off long enough to murmur and Patrick whines wordlesly, pushes down onto the extra finger and fuck he's ready, he's so fucking ready. 

“Brendon…” He pants, groaning as dark eyes meet his, the root of his cock framed by lush, pink lips. “Oh shit, Brendon. Fuck me.”

Brendon doesn't rush, spends a few more minutes with his fingers deep inside of Patrick as Patrick whimpers and pleads. He's gentle when he withdraws, wipes them off on the sheets as he crawls up to Patrick's lips. Patrick hooks his thighs onto Brendon's narrow hips, too far gone to think about anything but getting that cock as deep inside of him as he can. Fortunately Brendon isn't as far gone, turns to Martin and mutters quietly, “Condom?”

Patrick's eyes are scrunched closed, his hands grabbing at the headboard above him, hips arched up desperately but he hears the foil rip, hears Brendon roll the condom down his cock and feels another cool slick of lube against his ass and then it's Brendon's cock pushing and nudging where his fingers previously explored. Brendon presses forward and he whines below him, it fucking hurts and he tries to breathe deep but he can't, he's panting and gasping for breath as he gropes blindly across the sheet until a familiar hand slips into his. It feels like his own hand, the shape of the fingers, the knuckles, the way the thumb curves. Patrick squeezes and Martin squeezes back, brushes his other hand over Patrick's brow, sweeping back his sweaty hair. 

“Ah, fucking… Fuck.” He gasps as Brendon slips inside inch by agonising inch. Once Brendon's fully inside, his hips flush against his ass, he stills. Patrick forces himself to breathe deeply, to relax, replacing Martin's hand with the bedsheets as Brendon begins to grind his hips in slow, deliberate circles. Brendon's nails are digging into his hips, raking down his thighs and it feels so fucking good.

“O-oh.” Brendon groans, his hips stuttering to a stop as he slumps over Patrick.

“The fuck are you doing,” Patrick groans, grinding down against Brendon's cock.

“Eating him out.” Martin replies, voice muffled.

“Oh, fuck,” Brendon whimpers.

“That's not really helpful.” Patrick points out. “Brendon? Come on man, stay with me.”

“Jesus!” Brendon squeaks, his hands are braced either side of Patrick's head, his eyes glazed and lips parted as he pants. “Oh… Oh, fuck.”

Patrick grits his teeth and reaches up, grasping Brendon's face in one hand. Brendon's dark eyes widen in shock as Patrick snarls, “You're here to fuck me. So fuck me or get the fuck out.”

Brendon nods, eyes still wide as he takes a deep breath and starts to thrust, Martin's throaty laugh cutting through the silence, “Well well, I'd forgotten how fucking aggressive you get when someone fucks your ass.”

Patrick ignores him, concentrates on nothing more than the pretty boy between his legs, the cock plunging in and out of him, nudging against his prostate each time. Without his glasses and if he squints, he's the right sort of shape, the right sort of size and he can almost imagine-

He grunts as Brendon slams in particularly hard with a pained gasp. Patrick forces his eyes open, sees Martin loom over Brendon's shoulder, feels those familiar hands wrapped around Brendon's hips, jammed under his thighs. He guesses his brother has just slammed into the kid with no warning and very little preparation. Patrick could wince at the thought.

“Be fucking careful with him you asshole,” Patrick snaps.

“No, no it's fine.” Brendon insists, wrapping his hand around Patrick's cock and stroking hard and fast. 

He's getting close, so fucking close, knocks Brendon's hand away because he doesn't want to finish first and be left with nothing to do and he knows he gets too sensitive after he's come. Brendon pouts adorably but keeps going and Patrick's sort of impressed; he's been in that position before and always struggles to fuck and be fucked at the same time but the kid is holding up like a fucking champ.

That is until Martin angles his hips slightly differently and begins to knock against Brendon's prostate with each deep, deliberate stroke of his hips. He grins down at Patrick before biting down hard onto Brendon's neck, the kid's eyes spring wide once again as he gasps before dropping closed as the sensations overwhelm him. 

"Do you know... _why_ he likes being... fucked by pretty little... dark haired... scene boys?" Martin growls into Brendon's ear, each pause a hard thrust, his eyes never leaving Patrick's, face split in a sneer.

Brendon looks pretty out of it, body barely moving, it's Martin's thrusts that keep him fucking Patrick so really, it's like Martin is fucking both of them.

"You remind him... of who he actually... wants to fuck..." 

Brendon's head rolls loosely on his neck, dark eyes opening and meeting Patrick's with a sly smile. Patrick burns with humiliation. "Martin... Don't..."

"Go ahead, Patrick..." Martin stills completely, his smile as cold as his eyes. "Say it."

"Fuck you." Patrick mutters quietly. 

"You only get to come when you say it," Martin singsongs. "Fuck, _Brendon_ only gets to come when you say it."

"You... You can say it," Brendon assures him, running a hand down over Patrick's chest. "Like... it would be hot if you did."

Patrick bites his lip. His hips are starting to ache and fuck he needs to come. Martin is still grinning at him, his chin hooked on Brendon's shoulder. He swallows down the hard ball of embarrassment and breathes deeply a couple times before murmuring softly. "Pete..."

"What was that Trick?" Martin cups his hand behind his ear and frowns. "I didn't hear you. Tell him what you want him to do."

"Please... Pete... Fuck me." Patrick groans. Brendon makes a high noise at the back of his throat. “Fuck, please, _Pete_ just… _Fuck me_!”

Brendon is moaning like a fucking whore as he digs his nails hard into Patrick's hips and starts to slam into him, grunting as Martin follows his movements and his hand once again groping for Patrick's cock. It doesn't take long, no more than a few minutes and Patrick's coming hard, can feel it erupting from him and splashing up over Brendon's chest and stomach, over his own and Brendon's squeezing his cock, dragging out every drop as he moans and jerks and writhes beneath him, “Oh, Pete… Oh fuck, Pete…”

Brendon comes with a deep groan, his whole body tensing, eyes lightly closed and face drawn in a beautiful frown of concentration. His hips stutter into Patrick's and he collapses with a sigh, his full weight pressing Patrick down and into the mattress.

“That's it, baby,” Patrick murmurs to him, stroking his hair as Martin continues to pound into him. “You did so well.”

Martin pulls out after a few moments, dragging off the condom and grabbing Brendon by the hair, pulling him back and shoving his cock into his mouth without grace or warning. Brendon gags and splutters for a moment before adjusting, sucking hard.

“Martin – what the fuck!” Patrick objects, horrified.

“Shut the fuck up, Trick,” Martin snarls, fucking Brendon's throat before, with a twitch of his hips and a loud grunt, he comes, pinning Brendon's head in place until he's swallowed every drop and, only then, releasing him. 

Brendon lies still for a moment before crawling back to Patrick. Patrick holds him for a second before the familiar self-loathing begins to settle in his chest, “That stuff about Pete…”

“It's cool,” Brendon shrugs with a smile. “He's hot. I want to fuck him, too.”

“Kid?” Martin mutters, forearm resting over his eyes. “Time to go.”

“Come on, Martin,” Patrick begins after an awkward pause. “Let him stay for-”

“He needs to leave.” Martin snaps, slipping off the bed and heading for the bathroom. “Now.”

Patrick sighs deeply and presses a soft kiss to the corner of Brendon's lips before shuffling off the bed and back into his jeans. He keeps his back turned politely as Brendon drags on his clothes, waits as he fumbles in the living room for his shirt before accompanying him to the door.

“You can stay in my room tonight,” Patrick offers, privately thinking it might be quite nice to know the kid slept there, to smell him on the sheets tomorrow. “It'll be empty anyway so…”

“Where will you sleep?” Brendon asks. 

“He…” Patrick inclines his head back in the direction of the bathroom. “He needs someone with him when he's been on coke.”

“Oh.” Brendon's mouth forms a crooked circle in the middle of his face. His eyeliner is smudged beyond repair, Patrick notices absently.

“So, I can take you to my room. If you want? Just… If you steal anything could you make sure it's not my laptop? Anything else is fine just… There's like half an album on there.”

“I wouldn't steal _anything_.” Brendon snaps, indignant and Patrick flushes, embarrassed.

“I… It was just a joke, man.” 

Brendon doesn't reply, just stares down at the carpet. Patrick wonders if being fucked by Martin Stumph was all it was cracked up to be. He tries again.

“Okay so, I can give you some money for a cab?” 

“I still have like two hundred bucks that Mar-… That _he_ gave me.” Brendon responds, tone stubborn, eyes challenging.

“I know, but…” Patrick trails off. He wants to apologise. This probably isn't even close to what the kid imagined it was going to be when they sat in the bar. He and his twin have a habit of tarnishing everything around them, like some kind of reverse Midas touch. 

“I'm just gonna go.” Brendon shrugs. “My roommates'll be getting worried.”

“Okay. Right.” Patrick nods but continues to hover awkwardly by the door. Something occurs to him suddenly and he drags his wallet out of his pocket, fumbling for his card. “Here. Take this.”

Brendon looks down at it in confusion.

“I just… I do some production work on the side,” Patrick babbles. “You said… You said you were in a band, right? Send me something, a demo, whatever. I'll take a listen, see what I can do.”

“Oh.” Brendon's eyes widen once more as he looks up at Patrick with a grin. “Wow. Thanks. That would… That would be pretty cool.”

“Yeah. Least I can… Yeah.” He pauses, surprised, as Brendon leans in and presses his lips to his in a lingering kiss.

“You talk too much.” Brendon advises before setting off down the hallway with a swagger to his step. 

Patrick thinks the kid might be on to something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I maintain that I'm going to hell. You know what would be nice to hear on the way? Feedback!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Sociopath**  
>  ˈsəʊʃɪə(ʊ)paθ,ˈsəʊsɪə(ʊ)paθ/  
> noun  
> noun: sociopath; plural noun: sociopaths
> 
> a person with a personality disorder manifesting itself in extreme antisocial attitudes and behaviour.

2004 was the year Martin tried to kill himself. Patrick had found him fully clothed in the bathtub, water tinged pink and a gash on each wrist. He'd come very close, the doctors told them, he was lucky.

Pete had privately wondered if the bastard had done it on purpose. A calculated attempt to keep Patrick's attention fully focussed on him. He started getting tattooed that year, two full sleeves to hide the scars that had looked like dark ribbons on his pale wrists. It was also the year that Patrick started refusing to enter the bathroom alone.

2005 was the year Pete tried to commit suicide. He'd swallowed a handful of Ativan in a Best Buy parking lot trying to quiet the voices that raged in his head. He'd just wanted to sleep, had panicked when he realised what was happening. He'd called Patrick who'd rushed to find him, had somehow beaten the ambulance to his side and had sat with him in hospital for hours.

Pete had looked at the kid slumped on the chair next to him, eyes bloodshot and framed by smudges so deep they looked like black eyes, and swore he wouldn't put him through that again. That was the year Patrick developed insomnia. He could sit awake all night with Pete just talking shit, hugging his knees to his chest as the shadows under his eyes got deeper.

2006 was the year Patrick tried to commit suicide. Pete had thought there was something off about the call he'd received, stuffed full of rambled apologies and riddled with declarations of love. Pete had panicked, jumped into his car and tore ass across town.

Patrick hadn't been kidding, hadn't just been craving attention. Pete found him, a belt around his neck and secured to the bannister. He was still kicking weakly, his face dark with blood and froth bubbling from his lips with each agonising breath. It had taken every ounce of physical strength Pete possessed to haul his limp body up high enough to loosen the belt around his neck and buy him enough slack to breathe. Somehow he'd been able to prop him against the staircase while he worked his phone out of his pocket and screamed at the 911 dispatcher to just hurry the fuck up.

When he'd sat in the hospital bed, pale and quiet, Pete had asked him what the fuck, exactly, he'd thought he was doing.

"I just wanted to stop. Me. I wanted me to stop. I'm the reason. People don't want to stay with me."

They hadn't given the poor kid a break. There was an album to tour and promote and a lead singer's a fuck of a lot harder to replace than a mediocre bass player so Patrick wore a lot of polo shirts with the collars raised to hide the marks until they faded and if he was quiet in interviews, well, he always had been, so no one really thought anything of it. The press never got wind of the twin's attempts. Which was probably for the best as he's sure there would have been questions if anyone had known three quarters of the band had tried to off themselves.

Patrick's broken. Pete knows it. He can see it even as his friend smiles at him from across the tour bus. Pete has no idea if it's him that broke him or Martin or Hayley or something else entirely and he's too chicken shit to ask him in case it pushes him over the edge again. Oh, he knows Patrick is infatuated with him, it's there in the smiles, the way he lets his hand linger when they touch, the way he's always offered up his neck for Pete's lips on stage and relaxes back against him as though he's waited all day for that brief moment. But Pete is broken too and he knows that broken Pete will only break Patrick further so he keeps a wary distance.

After all, it's just a stupid teenage crush that he never quite grew out of. Pointless to indulge it, really.

"You okay, man?" He asks softly. Patrick's been quiet since Vegas, since he and Martin vanished from the venue post show and reappeared the following morning from Martin's suite.

"All good." Patrick smiles weakly and sighs before slipping the headphones from around his neck and handing them to Pete. "Want to hear something?"

Pete nods, slips them over his ears and lets the music fill his head. It's good. The vocals are rich and smoky and not dissimilar to Patrick's voice. He closes his eyes, listens to one track and then a second then opens them and slips the headphones off, handing them back to Patrick.

"They're good. You know them?"

"Yeah. The... The singer," Patrick blushes a little. "Brendon."

Pete just nods and smiles. He knows that tone of voice. Patrick's found himself a little obsession on the side. Fuck, he wishes the kid would find himself someone and settle down. He should be married by now, having kids, not just watching his best friends and his brother do it.

His brother.

Pete glances across the bus at Martin, lounging back on the couch opposite them. He's shirtless, tattoos and stockily muscled chest on display, tapping a rhythm on his thighs. Fuck, those thighs. Thick and solid and Pete knows just how the muscles in them tense right before he comes...

Pete should really stop fucking his best friend's - the fragile one with the desperate crush on him - brother.

Martin senses Pete's eyes on him and glances up, a lascivious grin spreading slowly across his face. Pete tries to look unimpressed and even sort of manages it until Martin slowly, deliberately, slides his tongue over his lower lip leaving it wet and shining. Pete stifles the groan, eyes darting to Patrick but it's okay, he's engrossed in his laptop once more, a small smile on his lips as he taps at the keyboard with his two index fingers and nothing more. He lets his eyes slide back to Martin who shifts slightly on the couch, spreading his legs a little so Pete can see the bulge of his cock through the thin material of his sweatpants. It's fucking hot on the bus in spite of the air conditioning and there's a bead of sweat running down the side of Martin's neck that he aches to lick.

He wants so badly to just be disgusted by him. He knows, objectively, that Martin's doing it purely because he likes to have what Patrick wants, the same reason he insisted on joining the band when, musically, they were everything he claimed to hate. The same reason he'd taken Hayley. The man's a fucking sociopath but... He's fucking _beautiful_ with it.

It's completely ludicrous. He's settled down. He has kids. And whilst he's sure Meagan would forgive the indiscretion of the occasional groupie as long as he's discrete and she never finds out, he's fairly sure she'd be less forgiving if she were to find out he's getting nailed by his fucking drummer every night.

He rolls his eyes at Martin and gives him the finger. They'll be at the venue soon anyway.

He watches Martin idly that night with a group of fans outside the show. They flock to him, like they used to flock to Pete when he was younger. He laughs with two girls who can't be more than fifteen, sets his fedora jauntily on one of their heads and slings an arm around each of them as their mom takes a picture. Pete wonders how eager that mother would be to let him touch her daughters if she knew he'd snorted down three lines between leaving the stage and coming outside.

He glances across at Patrick, quietly signing a CD sleeve. Kids bring those less and less these days, it's all digital media. When the kid asks for a picture Patrick smiles awkwardly, doesn't know how to hold himself naturally. The kid shows him the phone afterwards and he smiles but he's embarrassed. It radiates from him and tonight it pisses Pete off. He knows it's irrational and god knows the anxiety isn't Patrick's fault but fuck, how long is he going to play this shy teenager routine?

“Is Patrick okay?” Joe's hand is damp against his shoulder in the still summer heat.

“He's fine.” Pete snaps. The Stumph twins can kiss his fucking ass tonight, he's not in the mood to deal with either of them. He signs a final autograph before retiring to the bus and the relative solitude of his bunk, headphones on. He closes his eyes, feigns sleep and when Patrick tugs back the corner of the curtain, he doesn't let his face twist into a scowl in the way that he wants to. Patrick lingers for just a moment too long, Pete forces himself to stay relaxed as Patrick’s fingertips brush his cheek tenderly then the curtain drops and it's dark and quiet once more.

He's not in the mood.

He also isn't gay.

That's what he tells himself over and over that night in his hotel room as a stubbled jaw presses against his, the rough grate of it sharp and intense and no doubt leaving his skin scraped raw and red. He repeats it silently as a masculine tasting tongue slips into his mouth, as he surrenders himself to large hands wrapping around his wrists and yanking his hands above his head.

"I'm not gay." He gasps as the lips move up his neck, as that tongue flicks over his ear, as a hard cock presses the length of his through two pairs of skin tight jeans.

"Me neither." Martin smirks. Pete can't actually _see_ him smirk as his mouth is busily assaulting his neck, but he hears it, feels it in the way the muscles in Martin's jaw tense for a moment. He knows it should be ridiculous, he should laugh because Martin is _way_ up on his tiptoes to facilitate pinning his hands anywhere and his fedora is knocked off and his hair is pointing in every direction but... it's not funny. Not funny at all.

Martin's let go of his wrists but Pete keeps his hands over his head for a second, doesn't trust himself to move an inch as Martin yanks at his belt buckle. There's no finesse, no teasing or care, just hard tugs until it's undone. Pete's head slams back against the wall as a warm, rough hand snakes into his pants and circles his cock.

“ _Fuck_ …”

Martin has a hand in his hair, two hands, yanking him down to his knees as he manoeuvres them so he's back against the wall and Pete is in front of him, on his knees, mouth level with the zipper of Martin's tight jeans. He can see the curve of his cock, leans in and licks at it through the denim but keeps his eyes closed so he doesn't have to see that arrogant smirk above him.

“Impatient little bitch.” Martin sneers at him, yanking his head back roughly with both hands, pulling his hair so hard that an agonised groan echoes between them. “You want it that bad? Okay baby, suck daddy's cock.”

Pete doesn't want to be as eager as he is as he fumbles with the zipper, impeded by trembling hands and the fact that his head is still pulled back so he can't see what he's doing. He manages somehow, feels Martin's thick, swollen cock bounce free, the tip catching against his lower lip and grazing down over his chin leaving a sticky trail of pre-come across his skin.

He leans in, mouth open, fighting against the hold Martin has on his hair, desperate to get his cock down his throat but Martin taunts him, moving his hips at the last second time and again so his cock knocks against Pete's cheeks, his chin, his lips, marking his skin with his sweat and come and scent until Pete is begging, literally begging, for a taste, "Martin, please... Come on, just... Fucking _please_ , okay? I want to suck it..."

He's gifted the soft, smooth tip slipping past his lips but nothing more. The hands in his hair are so tight it's agony and Pete knows when Martin lets go there'll be dark hairs caught between his fingers, slicked to his palms with sweat, torn out at the roots. He works with what he's been given, sliding his tongue into the slit and gathering every drop of pre-come he can reach, sucking to draw up more. His head is pinned absolutely still as Martin begins to drive his hips forward and, whilst he doesn't slam his cock down Pete's throat, he's not exactly giving him time to adjust either. He can't get his head at the right angle, Martin won't let him move and he gags hard, dry heaving as that thick, heavy cock slips down his throat. There's drool sliding down his chin, thick ropes of it that he can't control, can't do anything but try to pant through his nose. He's going to choke, he can't breathe, he's going to fucking die in a hotel room with Martin's cock down his throat and he should be fighting back but he's not.

After what feels like an eternity he feels his lips bump against Martin's groin and finally the hold on his hair relaxes, he can tip his head to the right angle and oxygen floods into his lungs once more.

He opens his eyes and glances up, vision blurred as his eyes stream. Martin's lips are pulled into a cold smirk, arrogance etched on every line of his handsome face.

"And you said you couldn't take it all..." He gives a small but pointed little thrust that makes Pete gag once more then pulls back, enough cock left lodged between Pete's lips for him to play with comfortably. Martin’s lounging back against the wall, the hem of his shirt caught in his fist and pinned up to his chest as he watches Pete suck his dick. Pete's not even sure if Martin’s watching _him_ or just admiring the way his cock looks, thick and darkened with blood, framed by Pete's lips.

Pete slides a hand up over Martin's muscular stomach, tracing each ridge, following the outline of the large, intricate sailing ship that covers his stomach from his navel, the tattered sails peaking in the centre of his chest, the uppermost ones fluttering just above the low neckline of his shirt. Fuck, but he's a good looking son of a bitch.

“Keep sucking.” He growls, groping into the pocket of his jeans. Pete doesn't need to look to know what it is but watches anyway as he tips the powder onto the back of his hand, raises it to his right nostril, blocks the left, one quick sniff and it's gone. Martin already has a God complex, cocaine just amplifies it; deity squared.

He slips his hands into the waist of Martin's jeans, slides them down across the toned, tight perfection of his ass, gathering the denim as he goes. Lower and his fingers are pressed into the thick, solid muscle of Martin's thighs, the coppery hair scattered across them coarse against his soft, pale skin. He can't resist, let's Martin's cock fall from between his lips as he turns his head, presses his lips to the unmarred skin of Martin's inner thigh and sucks loudly. The muscles tense under his lips for a split second then he's dragged back by his hair, his head slammed against the wall and he's dizzy, vision blurring but he can still see it. The imprint of his mouth in wine red against cream pale.

Martin has him by the collar, twisting it too tight and too hard between powerful fingers as he half drags, half throws him towards the bed. He thuds onto the mattress with a winded grunt and watches, gasping for breath as Martin sheds his clothes. There's precision in each movement, in the way he slides his shirt, designed to look faded and worn but cut to cling fucking beautifully, up and over his stomach and chest, the way he does it so that each muscle flexes just so. The way he rolls those powerful shoulders as he tosses the shirt to the side. Then he slips off his boots and slides his jeans down from his knees and he's gloriously naked. Pete knows he would spend hours, literally _hours_ , exploring that body if he was given the chance.

Pete struggles to catch up, fumbling his way out of tight jeans and tight shirt and he wants, no he _needs_ , to feel skin against his. He won't get foreplay, Martin won't blow him even though he has those incredible dick sucking lips, he won't eat him out, won't really touch him at all beyond a quick slick of lube and, if he's lucky, a finger or two pressed inside of him before he's expected to take that fucking amazing cock.

“Peter.” Martin's voice is playful and teasing. If he closes his eyes it could be Patrick in the room with him. The difference, he decides, is the eyes; Patrick's are soft and gentle, Martin's are cold, hard, there's nothing behind them. “Hands and knees for daddy.”

He hates that he loves the daddy thing.

He rises up on all fours and waits, eyes closed, vulnerable and exposed, for the mattress to dip with Martin's weight.

“What do you think Patrick would say if he saw you like this?” Martin growls from somewhere close to the side of the bed. “Ass up for me?”

Pete doesn't reply, can't, because if he does it's going to be to tell Martin that nothing would turn him on more right now than to have Patrick watch him get fucked by his twin brother. The only thing that would be better would be if he could suck on Patrick's cock while it happened, to be filled by the brothers' come at both ends. But he knows Martin is into that shit, knows he’d go and drag Patrick from his room in a heartbeat and present him, cock all but fucking giftwrapped.

And, god help him, Pete would do it. He’d suck on that pretty pink cock until his mouth was coated with the taste. Patrick’s broken, he reminds himself, Patrick couldn’t take that.

The bed sinks, Pete's legs are pressed apart as Martin slides his stocky frame between them. He feels Martin's cock drag against his thigh, condom already in place, then there's a lubed finger against his ass. He breathes deep, relaxes, feels it slip inside as Martin's voice purrs softly into his ear, “You know he's in love with you, right?”

But the last word coincides with his rough fingertip brushing against Pete's prostate and all he can do is whine and buck back.

“Yeah. You know.” Martin slides in a second finger, presses them both in, right to the knuckles. Pete groans, long and low, reaches down between his legs to stroke at his swollen cock as Martin explores inside of him.

He whimpers when the fingers withdraw then tenses in anticipation as he feels the head of Martin's cock replace them. He bites off a scream as he pushes inside in one smooth thrust of his hips. Pete squeezes his cock hard, bites his lip and revels in the sensation of being so gloriously _full_ that his stomach almost hurts with it.

He feels soft, full lips trail up his back, over his shoulder and come to rest at his ear as Martin begins to move, not thrusting, just grinding his hips in slow circles as his breath ghosts over Pete's skin. “Do you want to call me daddy tonight? Or… Patrick?”

Pete doesn't reply, just moans and strokes himself harder.

“Would you let him fuck you like this? He wants to.”

Pete bites his lip. His left arm, the only thing propping him up, is shaking uncontrollably. He knows Patrick wants to, he’s known it for sixteen years.

“Remember that night in Des Moines?” Martin's voice is molten honey over ice. “How he got so wasted he passed out in the motel room?”

Pete rubs a little faster, trying to drown out the memories that he's not even sure he has. Martin's thrusting for real now, deep and hard, bottoming out on each drive in.

“All laid out on the bed in those ripped jeans. He used to look so fucking innocent when he slept. Had his shirt ridden up? Is that what made you do it?”

“I… I didn't… I'd… Remember.” Pete is gasping, heaving in air that seems too thick to fill his lungs.

“I found you.” Martin's smile coats his voice, the accusation rolling from his tongue. “Sucking his cock. That pretty cock right down your throat. While he was passed out. You were a bad boy, Peter. How did he taste?”

Pete doesn't want to get turned on by what Martin's saying, he wants to be disgusted, but there'll be time for self loathing later and the thought of his mouth wrapped around seventeen year old Patrick's cock is just too much.

“Oh god, Pa… Patrick,” he moans, feeling his stomach tense and tighten.

“Mmm, Pete.” Martin unleashes a perfect imitation of his brother's voice. “Oh god, Pete, _yes_.”

“Trick.” Pete pants desperately as fire unfurls in his belly. “Fuck me, Trick, make me… Fuck… Make me fucking come.”

He rears back so he's on his knees and presses himself to Martin's chest, feels strong hands slide to his hips and then one is wrapped around his cock. He keeps his eyes closed so he can't see the tattoos, can just imagine it's Patrick fucking him, Patrick stroking him, Patrick biting at the back of his neck and it's done, he explodes, sees stars and he's spent. Martin smears the mess from his hand up and over Pete's stomach as he slams in and out of him before those thighs tense under Pete's and he's groaning quietly as his cock twitches and his thrusts stutter and slow.

There's a moment of absolute quiet where Martin doesn't move, his body still pressed to Pete's, hands still tight on his hips. It lasts as long as it takes for his orgasm to fade then he's shoving Pete away so hard he bounces down onto the mattress, suddenly empty.

He hears the condom being tugged off, hears it hit the floor by the bed as he lies perfectly still. Martin shifts, the mattress dips with it and then something warm and wet hits his back. For a split second he has no idea what it is but then realisation crawls over him like an electric shock as the smell hits him.

It stops after a second or two and Martin's voice breaks the silence in the room, low and dangerous.

“Roll over.”

Pete doesn't want to. But Martin is strong for a short guy and fucking intimidating so slowly, reluctantly, he obeys, feeling the sheets wet and sticking under his back. Martin is smirking at him, his cock in his hand as he moves on his knees until he's by Pete's head. Then, and with deliberate precision, he lets go fully, a steady flow of piss hitting Pete in the face, on his chest, in his hair. He keeps his mouth closed but that makes it run into his nose so he gives up, opens his mouth and tastes it.

Martin doesn't say a word until he's finished, then he leans over and presses the tip of his cock to Pete's lower lip.

“Clean it.”

Pete runs his tongue over it obediently as his whole body burns with humiliation. Martin stands and gathers his clothes, yanking his jeans back on but not bothering with his shirt or shoes. He doesn't even bother to look back at Pete as he heads for the door but pauses before he opens it.

“You don't shower that off before sound check. Not if you want my cock tomorrow night.”

The door closes. Pete isn’t sure it’s possible to hate himself any more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like it? Love it? Loathe it? Let me know! It takes hours to get a chapter just so, it takes moments to hit that kudos button or leave a comment - the more I know what people think of it, the better it's going to be! So don't be shy, I'm super nice!
> 
> Accompanying artwork is by the immensely talented Das_verlorene_Kind. Please go to her blog at http://das-verlorene-kind.tumblr.com/ and take a look at all of her other incredible work!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Enabler**  
>  ɪˈneɪblə,ɛˈneɪblə/  
> noun  
> noun: enabler; plural noun: enablers
> 
> a person who encourages or enables negative or self-destructive behaviour in another.”

“You’re going to fucking kill me,” Patrick groans.

 

The room smells of sex. With the air con switched off so they don’t freeze the air is close and thick, hangs heavy with the smell of sweat, come and skin. 

 

It’s summer in Chicago and the city is melting with it. 

 

Every solid object seems to absorb the sun’s heat, internalise it, intensify it and radiate it back out making everything even hotter. Not least Patrick himself - sticky and panting - in the middle of his brother’s marital bed.

 

“Can you think of a better way to go?” Hayley murmurs, toying with his cock playfully. He strokes his fingers through her hair, a delicious little thrill shooting through him at the sight of her wedding band against his dick. He savours it - enjoys the illicitness - because he knows in about an hour he’ll feel nothing but hollow emptiness.

 

“If there is one, I haven’t figured it out yet,” he sighs, nuzzling against her neck for a moment.

 

“You’re adorable, you know that?” She tips her head back, exposing her throat and he plants soft, deliberate kisses over the exposed skin. Adorable, cute, sweet, such a good friend. Those aren’t the words anyone would use to describe Martin.

 

“You both talk too much,” Martin, pressed up close behind her, slides a hand down her arm, covers hers, following her rhythm on Patrick’s cock but encouraging her to squeeze harder. Sometimes, it pains him to admit, his brother’s open marriage has distinct advantages.

 

“Oh god,” he watches their hands - one so tiny and fair enveloped in the other so large, the ink of tattoos stark against pale skin, small scars from splintered drumsticks marring it like hieroglyphics - hips rocking in time. “Don’t make me come yet. Come on… Quit it…”

 

“Patrick wants to fuck you,” Martin has his lips against her ear, his eyes on Patrick as he stage whispers.

 

“I want to fuck Patrick,” she counters. Oh, Patrick loves hearing that, needs to hear it more, would never grow tired of listening to those words roll from her tongue.

 

“What do you say, Rickster?” Martin raises his eyebrows and grins. “Want to fuck my wife?”

 

“Let me check my diary,” he grabs her by the hips, rolls onto his back and drags her with him. She straddles him, hands splayed out across his chest, hair tumbling down over her shoulders and his heart hurts. He crushes it down, smiles widely. “Checked it. I’m good to go.”

 

He manages, somehow, to swallow the cry as she slips down his cock. He hates showing Martin what this does to him, despises how worthless it makes him feel. The truth is that his life is structured around these moments, the things he does between them just a pointless attempt to fill the hours and add noise to the silence.

 

_Weak. Desperate. Lonely. A loser by any other name would smell as pathetic._

 

He needs more. More physical sensation to drown out the voices ringing in his ears. He reaches out blindly, digs his fingers into the hair at the nape of Martin’s neck and drags him into a kiss. Martin leans into it - lips, tongues, teeth, spit - and it’s almost enough. His free hand is on Hayley’s hip, urging her against him harder and harder until she’s slamming down onto him so roughly they both gasp with each thrust. Martin’s cheeks tense into a smile right before his teeth sink into Patrick’s lower lip.

 

He groans - it’s perfect, the voices abate for a moment - Martin does it again, again and again, until there’s blood on his tongue, the taste coppery and metallic like the smell of coins that would linger on his fingers when he’d been working the cash register in Borders. He drags back, offers up his throat and closes his eyes and it’s Pete’s lips he can feel, soft and full and framed with stubble. Pete’s teeth are nipping at his neck. Pete’s tongue is dragging up - hot and wet - from shoulder to throat to ear, dipping inside.

 

Sweat is beading on his skin, the hair across his chest and stomach is damp with it, clumped and darkened to honey blond. Hayley is whimpering, keening his name softly but it’s all tied up with Martin’s and it’s not what he wants. He doesn’t want the sour taste of his brother, the bitterness of bourbon and blow that lingers on everything Martin touches. He wants _his_ name, Patrick - _just_ Patrick - to fall from her lips like it used to. Like it did when she looked at him as though he was all that mattered.

 

He keeps his eyes screwed closed, keeps telling himself it’s Pete nipping at his ear, that Hayley is just moaning for him but it’s not enough. He needs more. He needs something sharp and painful, his lip is nothing but a dull ache now, the bleeding stopped already but that worked, that was _distracting_.

 

“Fuck me,” he grits through clenched teeth, yanking hard on Martin’s hair.

 

Self-loathing pools in his stomach as the words leave his lips. It's been this way since they were fifteen - _we were supposed to be the same person, look; same dicks, same hands, same lips. It's not weird, it's just like jerking off but… better_ \- each time Patrick swears it isn't going to happen again. Until the next time he's low and desperate and the need to replace the emptiness with something - anything - even _this_ overwhelms his resolve. Martin knows this, of course he does, but Martin's a predator and he seizes his advantage when it's presented, sucking hard on Patrick's neck until he knows there'll be a mark. His mark.

 

Martin lets out a low laugh but doesn’t reply. The mattress shifts as he rolls away. Patrick refuses to watch as he hears Martin fumbling in a drawer, hears him setting up a line on the nightstand. He’s already taken some before they started but the buzz must be wearing off. It seems to happen faster and faster these days. Ten years ago and Martin would be euphoric all night on just a couple of lines, now he retreats to top up every half hour. Patrick slams his hips up into Hayley’s so her moans will drown out the noise of his brother snorting it down, his eyes pinned on hers, his lip bitten hard between his teeth. The bed dips again a moment later as Martin returns. Patrick knows he’ll have that little bottle of lube in his hand but no condom. Who uses a condom when they fuck their twin brother?

 

Hayley slows on him then stops and he can’t bite off the frustrated groan as she slips from him, his cock hard and throbbing and slick, the head flushed pink. He pushes himself over onto his stomach, Hayley moves in front of him, spreads her legs for him and he can press his face to her, run his tongue over all of those places his fingers and cock have already explored. It’s everything and nothing all at once, throws each memory into sharp relief with edges so sharp they could cut him if he examines them too closely.

 

He’s gentle, teasing, wants to bide his time but finds himself pushing his face into the mattress instead as he feels a warm, rough finger against his asshole. He grunts softly, pushes his hips back as it slips inside of him. He wriggles up onto his knees, still face down in the sheets, spreads his legs wide and pushes back. Martin works in a second, a third, Patrick is snarling into the sheets, fingers twisted into them until they stiffen and cramp.

 

It’s honeyed skin that covers the flesh and bone of the fingers inside of him - that’s what Patrick tells himself - skin the same colour as toffee. If he was to open his eyes, to look back over his shoulder he’ll see ridiculous black hair swept low over whiskey eyes and a wide, carefree grin.

 

Pete at twenty-five and Red Bull-scented kisses on sweaty necks.

 

“Just fuck me, goddamn it,” he spits out around a mouthful of cotton and he hates himself for it. Deep, burning hatred that coils thick and black in his stomach, that spreads up through his lungs and gullet until he's almost choking on it. “Fuck me like you fucked Brendon.”

 

Hayley is pulling at him and he raises his head but doesn’t open his eyes, circles his tongue up and over her clit, his lips closing around it and sucking hard as he feels the head of ~~Martin’s~~ Pete’s cock against his ass. She cries out, drags desperately at his hair and that’s good because it hurts too, leaves his scalp throbbing in time with his lip. He slams his hips back as hard as he can, crying out in agonised delight as ~~Martin~~ Pete is buried in him completely.

 

“Ah…” He gasps, tears somehow squeezing between eyelids scrunched so tightly closed they ache. “Oh jesus… Fuck…”

 

“You ready?” ~~Martin~~ Pete asks, giving a testing little thrust.

 

“Shut the _fuck_ up and fuck me,” he snarls, teeth clenched, already sore from being stretched, back already aching from the unnatural position.

 

~~Martin~~ Pete just chuckles darkly, lands a hard slap onto his ass and begins to thrust. It’s fucking _perfect_ ; it’s pain and pressure and a thunderbolt of pleasure as each drive in knocks his prostate. Hayley is all but singing his name and yes, finally, everything quiets down in his head, the echoing accusations that he’ll never be enough, never be “as good as”, always “not quite” are silenced by each screaming nerve ending currently being assaulted. ~~Martin~~ Pete is slamming into him, rolling his hips, he can feel his cock bouncing with the rhythm of it. He should touch himself but it’s too much, he’s overstimulated, can barely concentrate on keeping his tongue lapping against her clit.

 

“Oh fuck, Patrick,” she whines, writhing up towards him as he presses down until she’s all he can taste and smell, his face wet with her. She comes screaming his name, yanking at his hair so hard he’s sure she’s torn some out at the roots but that’s good, that stings nicely and he pulls back against her so it hurts a little more.

 

“Gonna roll you over,” ~~Martin~~ Pete is panting. “Get your cock sucked.”

 

“ _No!_ ” He roars. If he rolls over, belly up, he’ll have to look. He’ll have to meet blue eyes instead of amber and he’ll _know_ it’s all a lie. 

 

_It's Pete. Not Martin. It's Pete and that makes it okay._

 

But ~~Martin~~ Pete isn’t giving up that easily, he feels strong fingers bury in the hair at the back of his head, he’s yanked up without care or pity and his back is pressed to a broad, muscular chest. ~~Martin’s~~ Pete’s hand spans one side of his chest, the other still roughly twisted in his hair and yes - fucking _yes - this_ is what he needs.

 

“Hayley,” ~~Martin~~ Pete growls, just before teeth sink into the sinew where his shoulder meets his neck and it’s fucking _blissful_. “Suck his dick.”

 

“O-oh…” He stutters, eyes rolling back behind closed lids as starbursts flash like fireworks. “Oh fuck…”

 

He’s almost boneless in ~~Martin’s~~ Pete’s lap, can barely match the rhythm of the hard thrusts below him, can just roll his hips weakly as a hot, wet mouth slides down over his shaft. His hand snags her hair roughly as he bucks up into her mouth with renewed vigour because fuck he needs to get off, needs that explosion of light behind his eyelids, the roaring white noise of blood rushing in his ears. It’s there, he can taste it, feel the fire in his belly, the tightness in his groin. He stutters a shout, tenses entirely in ~~Martin’s~~ Pete’s arms, feels the first pulsing tingle-

 

“I am _not_ Pete fucking Wentz,” Martin whispers into his ear, right as he starts to come, right as thick, hot spurts shoot from his cock and into Hayley’s willing mouth. He cries out, struggles not to collapse forward onto her, guilt and shame settling over him as everything subsides. Martin is still fucking him, angling himself so he slams into Patrick’s prostate which makes him whine quietly. His cock twitches as Hayley carries on sucking him and it’s far too much but everything in his head is blissfully silent so he rolls with it, doesn’t push away from them even though he feels like he’s on fire.

 

“Mine,” Martin breathes against his ear, so softly even Hayley won’t hear it. But Patrick hears it, tastes it and it’s sour and dirty, made worse by the three quick, hard shoves of Martin’s hips that mark his release, a quiet groan, the hand in his hair even tighter and it’s done. Hayley moves and Patrick can fall forward, a yelp ripping from his throat as Martin’s thick cock slips out of him and he’s empty. Nothing touches him other than soft bedlinen that smells of Hayley and Martin and reminds him that the sheets in his apartment smell only of him. 

 

Hayley curls into him, slips her leg over his hip and he clings to her gratefully, accepts soft, soothing kisses though they do nothing to quiet the judgement in his head that’s risen to a screaming crescendo. He let it happen. Again.

 

“I’m going for a shower,” Martin is still kneeling on the bed, sweat-slick and beautiful. “Anyone joining me?”

 

Patrick shakes his head silently.

 

“No, I’m good here for a minute,” Hayley smiles sweetly at her husband, accepts the kiss he brushes to her mouth. Patrick ignores the one that’s smeared against the back of his neck like a brand. 

 

"You're my little piece of sanity, you know that?" Hayley rests her hand lightly against his cheek and smiles. Patrick feels his heart crack just a little more. 

 

The shower is running, the patter of the water against skin assuring them it’s safe to talk though their voices remain low. 

 

“I feel like I've just been nailed by a fucking eggplant,” he groans. He doesn't want to acknowledge her comment. He doesn't want to be her safety vest in the burning wreckage of Martin. “Am I bleeding?”

 

“I'm sure you're fine,” she laughs softly. “God it shouldn't be as hot as it is watching the two of you.”

 

He frowns and forces himself not to point out that it's not supposed to be fucking _hot_. He can't dwell on it, can't think too much about what just happened because it makes him feel dirty. Disgusting. This is why no one stays.

 

"You could leave him, you know," he tries, ever hopeful. "He wouldn't care. He doesn't care about anything any more."

 

"He's my husband," she points out. She's still smiling. He can’t smile back, if he tries he’ll shatter.

 

"I could be your husband." He knows he's whining. He's too old to whine. He's too old for any of this shit. "You want babies. You can't have them with Martin, he's a fucking trainwreck. You could have them with me. As many as you want."

 

"You know I love him, right?" She nuzzles into his neck, trails soft, teasing kisses there.

 

"You _say_ you love me." 

 

"I do love you. You're like... My big brother."

 

"Your big brother that you fuck?" This is such a fucked up conversation.

 

“You fuck _your_ big brother,” she raises a teasing eyebrow. He has never been, is not and will never be enough. The also ran. Patrick Stumph - Honorable Mention.

 

He leans in, sucks softly on her lower lip. "Hayley? Come on, run away with me."

 

"Patrick," she cups his cheek in her palm and presses a soft kiss to his lips before pulling back and holding his gaze as she speaks oh so gently. "I love your brother. Do you really want to waste the afternoon on this conversation?"

 

"It's never wasted if it's with you." He informs her, smiling as she giggles, the tension broken.

 

"Charmer." She sighs, strokes soft circles on the small of his back.

 

"When are you gonna make another album?" He kisses lazily at her neck.

 

"You just want an excuse to spend all that time alone with me in the studio..."

 

She's right. He's easy enough to see through. Oh, but the last time… Two glorious weeks holed up in a studio in New York. Two hotel rooms but one standing empty. Martin had called every night to listen to Patrick fuck her, the sound of his brother’s quick, hard breathing the biggest thrill imaginable. Because it was _Patrick_ deep inside of her making her scream, _Patrick_ with his cock in her mouth, _Patrick_ with his face between her thighs as she moaned and writhed for him and Martin was the one at home, alone, jerking off as he thought about it. 

 

But the sweetest memories are of the early mornings, the questing hands and quiet moans in half-dark. The smell of sleep clinging to skin and the delight of knowing it was just them because who remembers to call the voyeuristic husband at five in the morning? 

 

"Tell me about Vegas," she whispers, sifting her fingers through his hair. He pauses and looks at her uncertainly; he's never sure how much Martin tells her each time. "I hear there was a guy..."

 

"Brendon," Patrick begins with a grin. "Cute. Looked a bit like... Well..."

 

"Like Pete?" She prompts gently. "They always look like Pete."

 

"Not _always_ ," Patrick defends himself gamely. "He didn't look _like_ him so much as have a look _of_ him. The colouring."

 

"Hmm." She looks worried about him and he bristles. He doesn't need anyone’s pity. He's a grown man.

 

"But yeah," he finishes lamely. "It was... Fun."

 

"Good." She kisses him again and he savours it, memorises the taste and feel of her lips because god knows when he'll get his next taste. It could be a week, could be six months, there's no way of telling. "You guys need to hook up with cute twinks when I'm around."

 

"Oh yeah?" Patrick quirks an eyebrow. "You want to join in?"

 

_You want to find someone else to replace me with?_

 

The shower shuts off and they fall silent. He closes his eyes again, loses himself in the lie that this is his house, his bed, his wife. The illusion is as delicate as soap bubbles and evaporates with Martin’s footsteps across the bedroom floor, the bounce of the bed as he flops down behind Hayley.

 

"You told him our good news?" Martin asks, stretching out on the bed behind her, his arm slipping possessively around her waist, his chin propped on his hand. Patrick hates the way she relaxes back into him.

 

"Martin! You’re soaked..." She snaps, sighing as he kisses her neck. Her eyes slide to Patrick and she hesitates in a way that makes his stomach lurch before continuing softly. "Maybe now isn't the best time."

 

He blinks slowly, reaches to the nightstand for his glasses. It's her nightstand, her kindle and water glass resting there. She sleeps on the same side of the bed as she used to with him. Sleeps next to someone that looks sort of like him, only better. But it's not him. Once his glasses are on he shuffles up against the pillows and looks down at them, the height advantage makes him feel a little stronger.

 

"No. Tell me. What're we celebrating?"

 

"Do you want to tell him?" Martin tugs at her ear with his teeth and Patrick fights the overwhelming urge to punch him in the face. Hayley still looks anxious as she shakes her head, her eyes on his as Martin grins up at him from the pillow. "We're going to start trying for a baby."

 

All of the air leaves Patrick's lungs and he can't suck in more. He can just sit, frozen, and stare at them, mouth slightly agape, eyes wide. Martin is smirking at him and Hayley looks... He doesn't know, he can't read her facial expression at all. He needs to say something, needs to do something, most importantly he needs to fucking breathe.

 

He sucks in a breath.

 

Then it hits him like a sucker punch. A baby. They want to have a baby. His chest aches and his stomach hurts and his vision blurs with tears for a moment.

 

"C-congratulations. Happy for you." He's not. He's not happy at all. But that's why he didn't say "I'm". He's sure someone will be happy for them, _he_ thinks his heart is physically breaking.

 

"So this," Martin gestures between Patrick and Hayley vaguely. "Needs to stop."

 

"W-why?" Patrick asks unsteadily, his tongue suddenly too thick for his mouth.

 

"Well, I'd like to know any baby that falls out of her is actually _mine_ , you know?" Martin sneers.

 

"Martin!" She objects, slapping his hand.

 

"Oh. Right." Patrick nods numbly. His throat hurts from holding back tears. Hayley rests a hand on his arm gently, he looks down at it against his skin, slides his eyes up to meet hers and here it is, the moment his heart snaps in half.

 

"You'll be an amazing uncle." She whispers gently, squeezing his arm. If it's supposed to be comforting it falls woefully short of the mark.

 

"Yeah, _Uncle Patrick_." Martin grins widely and again, Patrick feels his fingers curl into a fist, imagines the way skin and bone and blood would feel under his knuckles. What’s the use? Martin would only hit back even harder, or, even worse, he wouldn’t and then Patrick's left looking like the asshole.

 

“Right. I guess you guys have lots to talk about.” Patrick swings his legs over the side of the bed, fumbles for his boxers. If he’d hoped he’d feel better with clothes on then he’s disappointed, his chest still aches and his breath is still coming in sharp, hard bursts as he tastes the tears at the back of his throat.

 

“Don’t go.” Hayley implores softly, hand pressed to his back. He flinches away, she’s not his any more, she’s Martin’s. He needs to stop kidding himself. “Stay the night?”

 

“I have stuff to do.” _Like falling apart_. His jeans are back on, zipper up, just the shirt and shoes and he can be out of the door. He can break down once he’s home, he assures himself. Once he’s alone.

 

Martin is still lounging back on the bed, running his hand slowly up Hayley’s thigh. His eyes meet Patrick’s and he smiles, a relaxed, easy grin that tears Patrick apart. 

 

“Okay.” He pulls his shirt down, smooths it, slips his glasses back on and pauses for the briefest moment before ducking to press a kiss to Hayley’s mouth.

 

Martin’s hand closes around his jaw in an instant, his smile never faltering. His voice is playful, teasing. “Ah ah ah. Not any more.”

 

“Martin.” She objects softly, batting his hand away gently.

 

She reaches up to kiss him but he jerks back, flushed with embarrassment. She’s not his. 

 

“I guess… I’ll uh… I’ll see you at rehearsals, right?” He pauses in the doorway and looks back at his “what if”, his “could have been”. Martin nods, grins, and, making sure Patrick is watching, slides his hand slowly between Hayley’s legs. “Right. Bye.”

 

He decides, as he hurries down the stairs and out of the front door, that the worst part is that she didn’t object. 

 

His apartment is silent when he enters, a little stuffy where the air conditioning has been switched off all day. Oddly, he no longer feels like he needs to cry, there’s a numb emptiness in his chest, a hollow feeling in his stomach as he sits carefully on the couch and stares at the blank TV screen.

 

A baby. Hayley’s green eyes and ~~his~~ Martin’s soft, strawberry blond hair. Her nose and ~~his~~ Martin’s lips. A bassinet in their bedroom, a nursery down the hallway. A Patrick across town no longer needed, no longer welcome, an unhealthy intrusion on their picture perfect family life.

 

He was wrong, he realises, he does have tears to shed. They sting and burn like whiskey on an empty stomach. He swears he won’t fix this inevitable trainwreck. This time he’ll walk away and mean it. He can’t be the back up, the rescuer, the enabler any more.

 

Even though he knows he will be, the second he’s summoned, the moment he’s needed again.

 

He needs to get out of his head, needs to speak to someone, anyone. He reaches for his phone and flicks through his contact list, hits call.

 

“Brendon? Hey… It’s… It’s Patrick.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What? _What?_ What're you looking at me like that for? Hey, _you_ read it, you can't judge me!
> 
> As always, thoughts, comments, and feedback are always gratefully appreciated and received.
> 
> Accompanying artwork is by the immensely talented Das_verlorene_Kind. Please go to her blog at http://das-verlorene-kind.tumblr.com/ and take a look at all of her other incredible work!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Relief**  
>  rɪˈliːf/  
>  _noun_  
>  noun: **relief**  
>  a feeling of reassurance and relaxation following release from anxiety or distress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Accompanying artwork is by the immensely talented Das_verlorene_Kind. Please go to her blog at http://das-verlorene-kind.tumblr.com/ and take a look at all of her other incredible work!

Brendon doesn’t understand Patrick.

It’s not that he doesn’t _like_ him - no, that’s not the case at all. The guy is funny in a weird, self-deprecating way, intelligent, insightful and his knowledge of music both as a fan and as a musician is like nothing Brendon has ever seen before. No, he definitely _likes_ him. He likes the way Patrick can make him smile with a witty little text message at 5am about some ridiculous 80s music video on VH1, likes the way he can shoot back a carefully weighed up reply and get nothing more than a cynically smiling emoji in response. He likes getting an email in the middle of the night debating the relative merits of five different albums he’s never heard of because Patrick has figured out that he'll haul his ass out of bed to waste the next three hours on YouTube and Spotify listening, watching, noting down his opinions to fire back. Yeah, he definitely _likes_ Patrick.

But he doesn’t _understand_ him.

Patrick should be busy. His band is huge and in the middle of launching an album, the guy literally shouldn’t have the time to locate his own ass but he’s sending ridiculous messages to a ridiculous twenty year old and it’s… Well, it’s _ridiculous_.

If Brendon were pushed to sum it up, he’d probably say Patrick seems kind of pathetic. Oh, he doesn’t dislike him for it, if anything he pities him, wonders how it can be that the guy can be so surrounded by people willing to kiss his ass and yet not - apparently, at least - have anyone he can call when he needs to talk. 

No one except Brendon. Ordinarily, he’d just assume it was his amazing skills in the bedroom, he’s aware he sucks dick better than pretty much anyone else he knows. But he’s not naive or arrogant enough not to realise that’s Patrick’s circle of known cock suckers probably extends a little further than his own. The guy is thirteen years older than him and a fucking rock star, he’ll have had his dick sucked in every city on every continent.

So, it can’t be that. 

He’s done a _lot_ of research, spent a few afternoons on Wikipedia and the crappy entertainment websites he usually avoids so he knows the background of Patrick’s personal life so far. He knows he was with Hayley Williams for nearly three years before she left him and - apparently immediately - got together with his brother. He knows Patrick has been single for the ensuing six or seven years. He knows this doesn’t help with his overall view that Patrick is sort of pathetic. Not in a bad way, he hurries to remind himself. More like a kicked puppy.

He’s also researched the shit out of Martin. Yes, _research_ , not just scrolling through endless pictures of him staring, brooding and handsome, into the camera, not combing through videos for a glimpse of that wicked lip curl of a smirk, the one that never quite seems to reach his eyes. No way. _Research_. He’s discovered that Martin is the opposite of his brother. No real relationships to speak of before Hayley, a string of beautiful women trailing in his wake from the mid to late noughties. Scene Queens, actresses, musicians. Never models. Brendon guesses his ego won’t allow him to date someone taller than him. None of them lasting more than a handful of weeks or months but none of them with a bad word to say about him. Then out of nowhere he marries his brother’s girl and - apparently - settles down. 

Fucking _weird_. 

He’s read so many interviews with the two of them, from the early days accompanied by photographs of them in ripped jeans and band shirts to the most recent issue of Rolling Stone with expensive designer clothes and a high budget photo shoot. Photogenic identical twins in a radio friendly rock band; they’re fucking media _gold_. Their dynamic together seems perfect both in written and visual media; genuinely close, affectionate, sweetly teasing. It’s not what he saw in that hotel room, no hint of some kind of weird, twisted power play between the two of them. 

But who is he to judge? 

He finds himself deeply conflicted about his association with Patrick. On the one hand, he desperately wants to avail himself of the helping hand and leg up that Patrick can provide him with - Brendon could salivate at the thought of the contacts that must be stored in Patrick’s iPhone - on the other, he isn’t an asshole and he doesn’t want to be accused of using anyone. 

So, when his phone buzzes in his pocket one afternoon as he stocks the shelves at the vintage record store where he picks up a few shifts between bar work, he’s unsurprised to see Patrick’s name on the screen. He considers ignoring it - he’s working after all - but that makes him feel disloyal and guilty so he steps into the stock room instead, hitting accept as the door swings closed behind him.

“Hey man, what’s up?” he greets him brightly.

“Brendon? Hey… It’s… It’s Patrick.” Brendon feels an uncomfortable little lurch in his stomach; is he… _crying?_

“You okay, man?” he asks cautiously. He isn’t good with crying, he never knows what to do or what to say. If they were in the same room he’d be patting Patrick stiffly on the shoulder and staring longingly at the door. Or trying to suck his cock because, seriously, no one can cry through a blowjob given by Brendon “Deep Throat” Urie.

“What? Yeah, fine,” Patrick heaves a deep sigh and Brendon does the same. Mostly out of relief he isn’t going to have to deal with a meltdown. “I just… What’re you up to?”

“I’m at work,” he leans back against a stack of boxes as his lips curl into a smile, admires his new Vans absently. 

“Oh, shit,” Patrick’s voice sounds like it’s scrabbling against his throat, falling over itself to get out of the metaphorical room it’s stumbled into. “I’ll let you go. I just… I forget people have real jobs. Sorry. I shouldn’t-”

“Patrick, seriously man, it’s _fine_ ,” he hopes Patrick can hear the smile in his voice. “I’m a record store clerk, not a brain surgeon. The worst thing that’s gonna happen is some jackass is gonna have to find his own fucking copy of Stairway to Heaven.”

“No Stairway?” Patrick quips.

“Denied!” he fires back.

“Man, I thought for sure you’d be too young to get that,” Patrick lets out a breath that it sounds like he’s been holding for hours.

“We sell old movies too.” He lets the insult hang there for a second. There’s a burst of laughter on the end of the line.

“Old? Fucking _old?”_ Patrick sounds like he’s talking to himself. “Kids…”

“Did you call me for a reason or just to bug me at work?” he hopes he sounds teasing, he doesn’t want to hurt the guy’s feelings.

“I… Well…” Patrick trails off in a way that, to Brendon’s educated ear, sounds like he’s casting around desperately for a plausible reason to be calling the guy he fucked in a hotel room over a month ago. “How would you feel about coming to Chicago? I wanted… Your demo. We could take a look over it together. I could introduce you to some people.”

Brendon’s heart leaps. This is it. Ryan’s going to piss his fucking pants when he tells him. Who says you can’t sleep your way to the top? He can’t sound too eager, he’s a professional musician, how would Martin react to news like this?

“When did you have in mind?” his voice doesn’t even shake. He’s a fucking pro.

“Shit… I hadn’t really… Saturday?” Patrick stammers and Brendon can hear paper rustling. Does this guy seriously keep a paper diary?

“Is that some kind of terrible joke?” Brendon teases.

“Um… What?” Patrick sounds baffled.

“Saturday?” Brendon prompts. At the other end of the line, Patrick stays awkwardly silent. “Are you _actually_ in Fall Out Boy or were you just fucking with me?”

“Oh! Yeah, right,” Patrick laughs softly. It’s a nice laugh; warm and sweet. “I miss that song... I miss that album… Fuck, I just… I miss that _life.”_

Brendon stays quiet. He isn’t sure there’s anything that he needs to say as Patrick seems to fall into reverie for a moment.

“Anyway,” there’s another rustle of paper, close to the phone. Brendon can imagine him sitting with the phone jammed between his ear and shoulder, diary held close to his nose as he squints through his glasses. Fucking _adorable._ “Saturday?”

“I’m gonna be totally honest with you,” Brendon takes a deep breath. “I am fucking _flat broke_. We all are. We can’t afford plane tickets, hotels, transfers-”

“Just you,” Patrick cuts him off, voice small. “I just… This is just… I just want you to meet some people. Tighten the demo up a little.”

“I’m not a solo act,” Brendon points out sharply. 

“I know,” there’s a tight little stab of pain in Patrick’s voice. He feels like he’s just smacked a puppy on the nose. Bad Patrick. “I promise this is legit, man. I can… Pay for your ticket? If that helps?”

Brendon stays silent. Yes, it’s manipulative and yes, it’s probably unfair. But, whilst he may be a lot of things, he won’t be summoned for sex like some kind of cheap whore. 

That’s a lie, he totally _would_ but it’s the wrong twin doing the summoning. 

“Brendon?” Patrick is barely whispering. “I… This isn’t anything _weird_ , I swear.”

“That’s a shame,” Brendon teases. “I kind of hoped _you’d_ suck _my_ dick this time.”

Patrick splutters and chokes, collapses into a coughing fit.

“Shit,” Brendon drawls. “I usually have to touch a guy before I have that effect-”

“Dude,” Patrick cuts him off sharply. “I mean it. This isn’t some kind of desperate, sleazy pickup line. I want to help your band, if you’re not interested then fine but you don’t need to make me sound like some kind of creepy, pathetic-”

“Patrick,” he interrupts gently. “I was kidding. A joke. Like the one you made about me stealing your laptop, remember?”

“A-a... joke,” Patrick echoes quietly. “Yeah… Just a joke.”

“Are you, like… okay?” Brendon asks cautiously. The offer to fly out is tempting but he’s not sure he’s up to being someone’s psychologist. He can barely take care of himself and Patrick seems weirdly fragile. This isn’t how he imagined befriending a celebrity would be _at all._

“Yeah,” Patrick is forcing a smile, he can hear it down the phone. “I’m good. So, am I booking this ticket, or not?”

Brendon is pretty sure he should walk away. They should just keep plugging the band with local gigs and eventually, at some point, someone will notice them. But there’s a bona fide recording artist holding a door open just a crack and he won’t be able to live with himself if he doesn’t at least _try_ to take a peek inside. Plus there’s the very real possibility that he’ll see Martin again. Maybe - oh god, _please_ \- they’ll get to go another round or three.

“Yeah,” his voice barely trembles. “That would be great.”

“Email me your information, I’ll send the confirmation through once it’s booked.”

“Sounds good,” Brendon bites at the inside of his cheek to stop himself from squealing with excitement. 

“Great,” Brendon hears the scrape of a pen being drawn across paper as Patrick underlines something. It strikes him suddenly how silent the room must be where Patrick is sitting for him to be able to hear that. No TV, no music, no radio, no burble of voices. Just… Silence. He must be in the studio or something. “I’ll have someone pick you up from the airport.”

“Of course,” Brendon nods sagely even though Patrick can’t see him. 

_What are you doing Saturday, Brendon? Oh, nothing much, just flying out to Chicago to hang out with Patrick fucking Stumph._

“Right. Well. You should probably go do some work or something,” Patrick trails off awkwardly.

“Yeah, I probably should,” he smiles. “Well… I guess I’ll see you Saturday.”

“Saturday,” Patrick agrees softly. “Bye, Bren... Don... Brendon.”

“Later, Pat… Trick… Patrick,” he teases, hanging up before Patrick can object.

He’s no further forward in working Patrick out. The guy’s a riddle, wrapped in an enigma, wrapped in a really fucking ugly sweater. He blows himself a kiss in the mirror by the door as he makes his way back onto the sales floor. _Brendon Urie, you’re going to be a fucking star._

“Oh, hey,” an irritated voice greets him from behind the cash desk. “No, no. Do _not_ let your job get in the way of your social life. You take just as many calls as you need.”

“Love you, Gee,” he grins widely at his boss and sets about reorganising the Rock and Pop section. He's lucky Gerard wants to fuck him or he'd have been fired _months_ ago.

Later that night, he struggles to explain the nuances of his conversation with Patrick to Ryan. Ryan, he’s decided, is a fucking idiot. And a bit of a bitch.

“Okay,” Ryan takes a sip from his beer and closes his eyes lightly, a frown of concentration creasing his brow. “Just to clarify. You met the Stumph twins last month in a bar. Somehow - and please, never share the details with me - you wound up with Patrick’s card. You sent him a demo of _our_ band and now he wants to fly _you_ out to Chicago to… Do what, exactly?”

“He wants to make some introductions,” Brendon takes a mouthful of bourbon, feels it burn on the way down. He’s been trying it out, a replacement for the cheap beer he usually drinks - if it’s good enough for Martin Stumph… “Do some stuff with the demo.”

“Uhuh,” Ryan’s frown deepens. “And how, _exactly_ , are you going to “do some stuff with the demo” without your fucking _band?”_

“He wasn’t huge on specifics,” Brendon flutters his eyelashes, flashes his brightest smile. “Maybe it’s just my voice that’s fucking shitty - he probably wants me to re-record everything. You play like an _angel_ , RyRy.”

“Do _not_ call me fucking RyRy,” Ryan pauses to take another drink before huffing out a dramatic sigh. “Okay, fine. I _do_ want details. Come on, spill. What happened? You sucked his dick, didn’t you?”

“A gentleman,” Brendon begins loftily. “Doesn’t kiss and tell.”

“And _you_ , my friend, are not a fucking gentleman,” Ryan rolls his eyes. 

“If I tell you, do you promise to stop being such a fucking bitch about me going to Chicago?” Brendon grins, pressing his advantage.

“I promise not to bitch _as much,”_ Ryan offers. 

“Okay,” Brendon leans back against the couch and wonders just how much, exactly, he should reveal to his friend. Not too much, he decides, subtlety is key. “I had a threesome with the Stumph twins.”

_Oh. Oops._

“Sure you did, Bren. Sure you did.” He worries that Ryan’s going to dislocate his eyeballs if he keeps rolling them like that. “You sucked the dorky one’s dick in an alley, didn’t you?”

“Come on, Ry,” he kicks at his friend’s shin, oddly hurt on Patrick’s behalf. “He’s a nice guy. Really cute in the flesh, actually. Adorable, in fact. And he’s got a _huge_ co-”

“ _Okay,”_ Ryan clamps his hands over his ears. “ _Fine_. Go to Chicago. Fucking _marry_ him - whatever, I don’t _care_ \- just never, _ever_ finish that sentence.”

“Homophobe,” Brendon teases, tossing a pillow at Ryan’s head. 

When he eventually staggers into bed, he finds another text from Patrick on his phone. Brief, no little jokes, no musical assignments, just a simple sentence - _your flight leaves at 2, looking forward to seeing you_ \- and Brendon wonders once again about Patrick’s intentions. When he thinks back to _that_ night he can recall the smell of desperation that had clung to Patrick as he stroked Brendon’s hair, as he murmured softly to him. There was loneliness in the way he’d leaned into Brendon’s back, the hungry way he’d kissed him.

He’s hard from the memories of the night and he’d be lying if he pretended it wasn’t Martin he was imagining as he wraps his hand around his cock. Those cold, hard eyes and predatory smirk, the smattering of stubble across his jaw. Those thick, well muscled shoulders, broad chest and all of that beautiful, intricate ink. 

And that fucking cock.

Brendon groans low in his throat as he recalls the way Martin’s strong hands had dragged at his hair as he pulled his mouth down onto his thick, beautiful cock, the taste of musky skin and salty pre-come. _Come to daddy_. Oh yes fucking _please._

He strokes harder and faster, lost in the fantasy of Martin’s arrogant smile, the way his lips twisted up at the corners almost cruelly. How the icy chill in his eyes had intensified as he stared down at Brendon with his lips wrapped around his cock. His biggest regret of the night is not kissing that mouth, tasting those lips that would have been flavoured with the bourbon he’d been drinking. He would like to bet Martin is a fucking intense kisser, would bet he pulls hair and pushes his hard, strong body up against whichever lucky bastard is on the receiving end. Probably the type to pin a guy up against the wall. Martin’s short so that magnificent cock would have pressed hot and hard to Brendon’s thigh… 

He should have fucking kissed him.

He’d felt those lips elsewhere though, he moans at the thought. His cock buried deep in Patrick’s hot, tight hole and Martin’s lips, Martin’s tongue, sweet and soft and talented, flicking against his own, pushing inside of him. Velvet soft, warm and wet. And Patrick, sweet little Patrick, had writhed underneath him, desperate for more of Brendon's cock… Fuck, he’d looked _delicious_ , all slicked with sweat and breathless.

Then there’d been strong, tattooed hands on his hips, gripping hard enough that he’d been left with bruises, small, dark smudges over his hipbones that had taken over a week to yellow and fade. He whines a little under his breath, hitches his knees up and sucks a couple of fingers into his mouth until they’re slick with spit. He reaches down, pressing them into his ass with a low grunt as he continues working his cock with his other hand. It’s good, pressure and fullness, though nothing compared to how Martin’s cock had felt as he slammed into him.

He gasps quietly then bites down on his lip - Ryan is in the room next door and the walls are like fucking paper. He may be pleasantly buzzed but he’s not drunk enough to put on a live floor show for his best friend. He arches his hips towards his hand, rubbing smoothly up and down his shaft, smoothing the pre-come down from the head over his length, slicking things up a little for a few seconds. He closes his eyes, rocks his fingers in and out of himself in time with his motions on his cock, not a simple task to coordinate but he likes to think he’s up to the challenge.

Oh god, Martin… How he’d bitten at Brendon’s neck, the filth he’d growled at Patrick over his shoulder. He was something else entirely, something raw and sexual and really fucking dangerous. Brendon would like to bet if Patrick hadn’t been there he would have been into all kinds of kinky shit. Hmm… Martin pinning him face down to the bed while he fucks him raw, those hands wrapped around his wrists, that stocky, muscular body pressing him down.

Patrick’s lips against his, soft, tender little kisses that deepen slowly until his hands are wrapped in soft, strawberry blond hair whilst a gentle, inquisitive tongue explores his mouth. On his back so they can fuck face to face, his knees pressed up…

Martin wrapping a hand around his throat, squeezing just right, just enough to make his head light as he pounds into him, dragging out of him before he can come and yanking his mouth down over that thick, heavy cock. He strokes himself harder, he’s getting close, can feel the pressure building low in his belly, down into his groin.

Patrick flat on his back, Brendon straddling him, riding him, watching that sweet face as he groans and writhes below him. Hands firm on his hips, guiding him, rocking him, angling him so Patrick hits his spot each and every time. A hand moving to Brendon’s cock - slow, firm strokes up and down that make his spine tingle.

“Oh god, Patrick…” He whispers softly, thrusting his hips up towards his hand as he teeters right on the very brink of exploding. He tightens his grip on his cock, presses his fingers as deep into himself as he can get them and he’s there, the delicious sensation of his come pumping out into his hand, over his stomach and chest. 

His bedroom door crashes inwards and he wishes - oh, how he wishes - that he’d got under the covers to jerk off.

“Bren! I had a thought… Oh shit,” Ryan stands in the doorway, eyes moving from Brendon to his phone, balanced on the nightstand. “Are you… Masturbating to Fall Out Boy videos? Jesus fucking christ, I think I’ve gone blind.”

“I might be,” he likes to think he manages to retain some dignity as he pulls his fingers out of his ass with a grunt, swiping at the sticky mess on his stomach with his free hand before pushing himself up onto his elbows. “Have we learnt a valuable lesson about knocking?”

“Oh, for real,” Ryan isn’t exactly rushing to leave the room. “I just… Fall Out Boy videos?”

“You’re either going to leave my room,” Brendon begins, taking a deep breath. “Or you’re going to get over here, fuck me and let me call you Martin.”

“You’re thoroughly abhorrent.” 

“Your loss,” he calls at Ryan’s retreating back.

As he settles down to sleep, he can’t help but wonder why the fantasies kept straying. He’s almost certain he doesn’t really see Patrick that way - he’d been a decent enough fuck, for sure - he’s too oddly fragile… Brendon can’t even put his finger on it. But he finds himself reaching for his phone in the darkness, tapping out a quick message and hitting send.

_I’m looking forward to it too._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for reading. As always, I'd really love to know what you thought so... Well, there's a comments box riiiiight below or just hit the kudos button if you're pushed for time. Every time you give feedback Patrick smiles!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Polyamory**
> 
>  
> 
> ˌpɒliˈam(ə)ri/
> 
> _noun_
> 
> noun: polyamory
> 
> 1.the practice of engaging in multiple sexual or romantic relationships with the consent of all the people involved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm promising you Peterick in the next chapter. I pinky swear it.
> 
> Accompanying artwork is by the immensely talented Das_verlorene_Kind. Please go to her blog at http://das-verlorene-kind.tumblr.com/ and take a look at all of her other incredible work!

"Can we go for a walk?" Patrick had muttered to her down the phone. "I just... I need to talk to you. Without him around."

She hadn't hesitated, well, not for long anyway. He may not realise it but she does love him, has done for years and probably always will. It's not the same raw intensity that she feels for Martin but that's no real surprise as Martin is a force of nature, he's like the wind or the tide as he scoops everything up in his path and drops it wherever it lands. Like the wind he doesn't care about what he leaves scattered in his wake. Like the tide he's impossible to resist.

She can see him leaning against the railing that edges the pier, elbows resting on it as he gazes out at the water. His cap is pulled low but the breeze is ruffling what little of his bangs are peeking out from under it. He's still wearing that ridiculous ratty sweater that he's been wearing for weeks and those sneakers... He's such a dad. He _should_ be a dad. He'll make a wonderful father.

"Guess." She instructs, standing behind him and slipping her hands over his eyes. He doesn't jump at all, just relaxes against her, she feels him smile under her palms.

"Scarlett Johannson?" He enquires hopefully. "Can't be, I broke it off with her, she was getting clingy. Natalie Portman? No, wait, not on Thursdays. Hmm... I'd say Gal Gadot but she's taller."

She laughs and moves her hands to his waist, pressing a kiss to his cheek as he turns to face her with a smile, "You're such a dork."

"Thanks for coming." He rubs awkwardly at the back of his neck. "Come on, let me get you an ice cream. Milk's a great source of folic acid."

He says it without wincing and she knows he's been practising. Martin was cruel to tell him how he did - _when_ he did - but when she chastised him after the front door had slammed and Patrick’s car had roared into life on the driveway Martin had merely laughed. His broad shoulders had raised in a careless shrug and his lips had twisted into a cold smile as he pointed out she could have told him, she could have been gentle. She supposes he was right.

Once they have their cones they walk along the pier in companionable silence, side by side, a gap small enough that it would be completely natural for him to reach across and take her hand. She notices that he holds his cone awkwardly in his left hand, the one closest to her, so that it's not a temptation. Her heart breaks for him because he won't stop chasing things he can't have, like a teenage boy with a crush he convinces himself that his obsession is the only thing in the world that can possibly make him happy. Then she's irritated - unfairly, she knows - because why should she carry this for him? He's thirty-three, there's a huge world of possibilities out there for him, he needs to turn his eyes away from his brother's wife.

Even if he did get there first.

They talk shop for a while, about the upcoming Fall Out Boy tour, the album that's about to drop. It takes him a while to work the conversation around naturally but he manages it eventually.

"So when we tour." He pauses to toss the napkin that had been wrapped around his cone into the trash. "If you're pregnant. Will you be coming?"

"I... I guess I hadn't really thought about it." She watches the ferris wheel as it moves around slowly, anything to avoid looking at him. "Martin and I... We haven't really discussed it yet. It's still just a "what if"."

"Right. Yeah." He's nodding furiously, she can see that in her peripheral vision. "So. You and me. Us."

"Us." She repeats gently. "Your twin's wife and brother."

This time he does wince and she feels cruel. But it's true.

"Yeah, that "us"." He air quotes the word and takes a seat on a bench so she joins him. "I've been thinking a lot about what he said."

"Which part in particular?" She begins carefully. He tries to ease the tension by kicking playfully at her ankle but it doesn't work.

"The part where he said we can't hook up any more." He blurts out all in a rush. She glances around quickly and hopes to god no one heard because that's a TMZ headline if ever she's heard one.

"Please keep your voice down." She admonishes him sharply. He winces again, mumbles an apology. "I thought he made a good point, actually, if a little clumsily. You can't keep sleeping with your brother's pregnant wife."

"But it could take you guys _years_ to get pregnant." He sits up a little straighter on the bench, looks as though he's going to reach for her hand but bites his lip instead.

"And if _you_ got me pregnant?" His eyes slide from hers for a moment to examine the boards beneath their feet.

"Well there's condoms." He points out as though he's stating the obvious. Then he continues, pure defiance. "But... what if I did? He'd never know. The kid would still look like him and... Look, I did a bit of research and even a DNA test is no use if the dads are identical twins."

"You... researched that?"

"I spent like, three minutes on Google. I think that counts as research." He's trying so hard to make her smile but it's not working.

"So, just to clarify, you want to keep screwing around behind your brother's back?" He falters for a moment and she knows it's on the tip of his tongue to point out Martin had no such reservations about doing the same to him but of course he doesn't. He's too much of a gentleman.

"I mean... Well, that's one option." He shrugs helplessly. "Or you could... I don't know, maybe talk to him?"

"Talk to him about what?"

"Well, I was thinking and maybe we could open everything up for real..." He trails off awkwardly and she wants to tell him to stop but knows he wouldn't listen. "We _all_ try for this baby. Maybe I move in. It can be how it was but... But with a baby. _Our_ baby."

"Patrick..." Her voice trembles and her throat aches. She should touch him, take his hand, but she won't.

"I know it sounds weird but kids are... They're resilient, they just know their own normal, you know? Family doesn't mean mom, dad, two kids and a dog any more. We could... We could do it." He sighs deeply, staring down at his hands clasped between his knees before continuing softly. "Or - and this is my favourite version - you leave him. And you have that baby with me."

"Oh, Patrick." He's killing her. This is their break up all over again.

She hadn't loved him the moment she met him at some Fueled By Ramen party in New York but she _had_ thought he was thoroughly adorable with his sideburns and hat and brightly coloured clothes that didn't quite match but didn't quite clash. He'd been sweet and easy to talk to and by the end of the night he sidled over and, stammering, asked to take her out for dinner. 

She was eighteen, he was twenty-two, a few months from his twenty-third birthday. He seemed younger. He was her first but hadn't made a huge deal about it, waited patiently until she was ready. She can still recall the way his breath had tickled her ear as he leaned down to whisper to her softly, _“I love you… Just relax…”_. How he’d gently teased her with his fingers, trembling with the effort of restraining himself, waiting until the moment she came to slide inside of her so it wouldn’t hurt.

Martin had barely acknowledged her for the first two and a half years. After Fall Out Boy went to shit and Patrick began pulling together an album he'd suddenly begun spending more time with the two of them. Patrick agreed, somewhat reluctantly, to let Martin drum for him on the album and any tour he did but Hayley knew it jarred with him - it was supposed to be his thing. But how could he refuse when, as Martin pointed out, he was a better drummer than Patrick, he had nothing else to do and he didn't even want to be paid for it.

Patrick was working late at the studio the first time it happened. She sat on the couch in the apartment he shared with Martin, watching a movie as Martin sat on the armchair in just his sweatpants, tattooed torso on display, hands clasped loosely behind his head. She glanced across at him and found him staring at her intently, the light of the TV catching his eyes and making them glow. He smiled when their eyes met, slow and easy, stretched a little and went right back to watching the TV. Her heart hammered and she had no idea why.

"I know you're attracted to me." He muttered after a moment or two had passed, his voice thick with conflicted emotion. "I... I feel it too."

"What?" She replied after a short pause. It had been a terrible answer but really... What?

"It's pretty common for us." He smiled at her endearingly. "I mean, we look alike, right?"

She nodded. Because they did. But they didn't. Patrick was safe and soft and Martin was hard muscle and ink and, if she was totally honest, he raised the danger flag in the back of her mind like a deer catching the movement of a wolf in the treeline.

"But... I don't usually feel it too." He ran a hand down over his chest and stomach, skimmed the flat of his palm over the bulge in his sweatpants, let his eyes drop closed and caught his lower lip between his teeth. She cleared her throat to cover the noise she made but he heard it, his cocky grin told her that. Then he stood and left the room and she sat in the near dark, breathing hard and wondering why her boyfriend's brother had her throbbing between her legs.

When he returned, he sat next to her on the couch, close enough that their thighs touched lightly. Close enough that she could smell him; the masculine musk of his skin, his expensive body wash and something else, something raw and primitive and constructed entirely of pheromones and arousal… He smelt of sex. They sat in silence - she had no idea what was going on with the movie any more - until she turned her head to glance at him. His lips closed over hers in an instant and although she knew she should shove him away she didn't want to. It was just a kiss, she told herself, even as his tongue swept into her mouth, as his teeth nipped at her lips, as his hands cupped her face and dragged her closer. It was ill-advised, sure, but it was just a kiss.

He grabbed her wrist, pressed her hand down and into the waistband of his pants until her fingers closed around a cock that felt like Patrick's but wasn't. Between how impossibly hard he felt under her palm and how soft and teasing his lips had been against her throat, she found herself following his urging and lying back on the couch. Her own sweatpants melted away and he slipped down her body, pressed his mouth between her legs and began to swirl his tongue over her clit. She gasped and sighed and pulled at his hair, looked down and watched the way his tattoos stretched and flexed with the muscles underneath. She'd come so hard she could barely breathe.

There was no reprieve though as he rolled lithely to his feet, pushed down his sweats with one hand and pulled her forward gently by the hair with the other, guided and pushed her mouth down over his cock as he groaned and cursed above her. She did what she could to please him, tried to follow the rough, hard rhythm he seemed to want but she only had Patrick to compare him to and Patrick was so sweet and gentle... Whatever she did seemed to be okay as she felt his cock twitch in her mouth, his hands tighten in her hair and his curses became fouler, more depraved until he dragged her back off him, panting hard.

Again, he didn't give her chance to think as he shoved her over the arm of the couch, lifted one knee onto the cushion behind her, the other foot on the floor as he lined himself up and pushed into her slow and steady. It had hit her that it was no longer just a kiss. She'd cheated on Patrick. Kind, innocent Patrick with his shy smile and gentle hands. But then Martin had begun to fuck her, slow and hard and it had been hard to think about anything else but him filling and stretching her, slamming into her as his fingers - rougher even and more calloused than Patrick's from years of full time drumming - roughly worked her clit. When she came he released with her, both of them crying out so loud she felt certain the neighbours were going to complain.

She felt sick as the high wore off, ashamed when she felt his come running down her thighs because of course she hadn't asked him to use a condom and he hadn't volunteered.

"We can't do that again." He informed her, voice tight with anguish. "We'd... We'd fucking _destroy_ him."

She nodded and chewed her lip until it was sore, showered with the water as hot as it would go so Patrick wouldn't smell anything on her when he got home, wouldn't suspect what she'd done. Martin had gone out by the time she left the bathroom, his jacket gone and his cigarettes missing from the kitchen counter. Patrick arrived home twenty minutes later and somehow she feigned normalcy. Faked a headache because the thought of letting him inside of her where his brother had been an hour previously was just too much to bear. It wouldn't happen again, it had been a stupid mistake.

The guilt as he fussed around her had been unbearable. He even insisted on going back out to the store - even though he looked exhausted himself - just to pick her up some Advil and the herbal tea she liked.

Of course it did happen again - lots of times - every time they could. Each time she wanted to die with the shame of it but she was addicted and the cravings were powerful. She laid in Martin's arms one warm afternoon, windows open and a gentle breeze caressing their bare skin. 

"You should talk to him." He suggested, pressed his lips to the back of her neck.

"Hmm?"

"Patrick. You should talk to him. About us." He wasn't deterred by her disbelieving laugh, continued in a low voice. "Seriously. We've... shared before. But it needs to come from you."

It took three weeks of persuasion but eventually she sat Patrick down, explained she felt an attraction to Martin and wanted to open their relationship to him. Patrick sighed and nodded like he thought it was inevitable, like he was surprised it hadn't happened sooner. He laid down his single ground rule - that it was only to happen when he was there - and she agreed because it meant she didn't need to lie.

So, the three of them had enjoyed one another together and she thought she'd never get over how amazing it felt to have Patrick's cock inside of her, his chest to her back, her hands curled back around his neck and Martin's tongue on her clit. 

After the first couple of times Patrick stammered a confession like his mouth was filled with tacks. Sometimes he and Martin liked to… He trailed off and Martin smirked at his brother's embarrassment and her confusion. As though in answer he slipped a hand into Patrick's hair and dragged him into a kiss. She’d be lying if she said she was surprised, their chemistry in bed together was too good, too familiar. She’d seen hands linger where they shouldn’t. Martin fucked Patrick raw that night as Patrick fucked her, not letting up even as Patrick cried out in something that no longer sounded entirely like pleasure. Patrick hadn't told Martin to stop, had pressed his mouth tight to hers and let each hard, deliberate thrust carry through his hips and to her. 

But somehow she and Martin still crept, still hid, still fucked when they shouldn't. She and Patrick argued about it - the only arguments they'd ever had - but she thought they could weather it. Until the day she came to the apartment to find him sat on the couch, staring at the wall.

"You want him, don't you?" He asked softly.

"I want both of you." He smiled mirthlessly at her reply.

"You want him more." He shrugged a little as he spoke, face neutral but for the muscle that ticked in his cheek. "I'm... Going to take a step back. Stay with Pete for a while. Maybe, if you still want me in a few months..."

Martin had swept her off her feet. He was a hopeless romantic, she'd been wooed and courted by a man so charming it was hard to imagine he was really hers. Not so much a whirlwind romance as a hurricane, a towering tsunami of promises and declarations. That was his true self, she'd decided, not the standoffish, rude, coked up asshole that she'd known. No, he was sugar sweet on the inside, softer, he even stopped taking drugs. At least, that's what he told her when he said she was the only high he needed. Then there'd been the sex, incredible, mind blowing sex that pushed every limit she thought she had and left her breathless and craving him all the more.

Patrick - poor, heartbroken Patrick - with soft lips that told her he was happy for her but eyes that glittered with agony. It hadn't been what he planned when he gave them some breathing room, that much was quietly obvious. 

She married Martin within the year. He persuaded Patrick to be best man and in every photograph his mouth had curved into a smile but his eyes were dull with pain. He threw himself into his album, the weight fell off him until he was unrecognisable and she'd begun to worry about him. He bleached his hair, traded hoodies and jeans for shiny suits and bow ties. He said it was just a new look to go with a new sound but she knew the truth - he didn't want to look like Martin any more.

Soul Punk bombed.

The reviews had been positive, he thought it was going to go well but the crowds weren't so impressed. They didn't want to hear anything new, they just wanted Fall Out Boy and they took it out on him. Then he hit the bottle pretty hard. It didn’t seem to matter what time of day she called him, he was wasted and slurring, sobering up enough for whatever show in whichever shitty venue he was set to play before repeating the whole process again in the next city.

Of course, Martin wanted to keep their relationship open, especially when he was on the road with Patrick. Oh, he pretended for a while that he'd settled down but she knew. She knew in the way he'd smile at his phone, cold and predatory, the way he'd slip out of the house at eleven at night without an explanation and not return until day break. So, much as she'd done with his brother, she sat him down, asked how he felt about opening the relationship. He'd shrugged like he didn't care either way but he'd agreed. 

In reality, the only person she wanted was Patrick and he agreed readily, slipping into her bed with an eagerness that reeked of desperation and loneliness. She'd known she was using him in her own way; it kept their relationship going in a way that was safe and easy to pick up and put down. Her reliable, dependable best friend, lover, confidant, always available when she needed him. She hadn't stopped to worry about what she was doing to him, what they were both doing to him. 

Monumentour had been agonising. Pete and Joe barely spoke two words to her and she honestly couldn’t blame them. Martin alternated between possessive jealousy, clinging to her, refusing to let her out of his sight and snarling at her, pushing her away, acting as though he’d made the biggest mistake of his life in marrying her. Patrick spent the whole time thoroughly bewildered, never sure if she was going to cut him dead to placate Martin or crawl into his bunk or bed for comfort. 

Martin was everything Patrick wasn’t; dangerous, edgy, the physical embodiment of a bad boy. He could be sweet, funny, kind but it depended entirely on his mood, on the amount of cocaine and alcohol floating around in his system, on how recently he’d had a dirty fuck with a random stranger. If everything aligned perfectly he was so much like Patrick but _better_ because he oozed a natural magnetism and charm that his brother didn’t have. 

She so wanted to mould him into that superior Patrick, to have the attentive, caring husband all of the time, rather than some of the time. But it hadn’t seemed to matter so much when she had Patrick to fill the voids when Martin was fucking someone else or coked out of his mind. Her little piece of normal to hold her close and soothe her fears.

And so they've been for seven years but she's not a kid any more and neither is he. She wants the family Martin’s promised her and that won't work in a dynamic as fucked up as it currently is. The truth of the matter is that she’s absolutely terrified about Martin making the step to parenthood, she already wakes each morning scared that she’s going to find him stiff and cold next to her, the excesses of the night before just too much for his body to take. She can feel the panic rising even as she thinks about it but she forces it down. Fatherhood will be good for him, a baby will calm him down, how could he keep up the hedonism when his own flesh and blood will be waiting at home for him? So she sighs before continuing.

"You need to stop asking me that." It's hard to keep the sharp edge from her tone but she thinks she manages it. "Patrick, I'm not leaving him."

"No." He shakes his head slowly. "I know you're not. I'm just telling you... You have options."

"I love him."

"I love _you."_ He counters and it... it breaks her heart. It sounds like a desperate man clawing for a lifebelt. “I just… I'm not ready for it to be over.”

“For _what_ to be over?” She prays he won't cry. She won't be able to hold it together if he cries.

“This.” He pauses to let the word encompass them. To let it encompass everything. “Us.”

“Patrick, I'm _married.”_ His breath catches at the back of his throat. She hates herself a little more. “We've been over for _seven years.”_

“Hayley.” There's so much in one word, so much pain and betrayal. She wishes there was anger, it would be easier to rail against anger. “Please.”

"This stops today, Patrick," she somehow manages to say it a lot more firmly than she feels. "I mean it. If you can't... If you won't just be happy for us then we can't see each other any more."

His face twists in anguish for a moment, like she's physically hurting him but he takes a deep breath, glances down. When he looks back up he's smiling but his eyes give him away. "Sorry. Forget it. I'm just being dumb."

They fall silent again for a moment until she waves the white flag.

"I'm meeting Martin for dinner - want to come?" Martin won't mind. Maybe he'll soften, let Patrick spend the night.

"No,” his voice sounds tight and raw, like the words make his throat itch. “If it’s all the same I… I have stuff to do.”

“What stuff?” She’s losing him. She’s not ready for this. “Patrick, come on, you never turn down a free dinner.”

There’s a pause as he stares out across the lake, sweeps his cap off for a moment and the breeze ruffles his messy hair, lifts it from his brow and for the briefest moment he looks twenty-two again.

“It’s never free,” he murmurs as he pushes to his feet. “I… I guess I’ll see you around.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you so very much for reading. Patrick smiles when I get feedback.
> 
> Oh also, I have a Tumblr I have no idea what to do with so... sn1tchesandtalkers - we can chat, we can laugh, we can sing FOB songs or something.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Friend**  
>  frɛnd/  
>  _noun_  
>  noun: friend; plural noun: friends; noun: Friend; plural noun: Friends  
> a person with whom one has a bond of mutual affection, typically one exclusive of sexual or family relations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Never let it be said that I don't deliver on my promises.
> 
> Accompanying artwork is by the immensely talented Das_verlorene_Kind. Please go to her blog at http://das-verlorene-kind.tumblr.com/ and take a look at all of her other incredible work!

Pete can recall the exact moment he knew Patrick had fallen for him.

Another show in another tiny venue, screams like religious testament roared through microphones they were never sure would make it through the next song, never mind the whole set. Kids and sweat and being crammed together so tight on stages so small they were shoulder to damp, steaming shoulder. Pete swore his heartbeat changed to match the rhythm of Martin's drums, that he breathed in time with his bass.

And Patrick’s voice. Patrick’s electrifying, fucking _golden_ voice that could soar over a room. Pete would tingle with it for hours afterwards, shivers crawling up his spine, his cock thick and dark and swollen if he thought about it too much. 

That kid, that fucking _beautiful_ kid, with his shy eyes and wide smile and plump, fuckable lips. Skin milk pale and silk soft. Pete’s goose that laid the golden eggs, his godsend, his ticket to the fucking big time. All wrapped up in a shy little seventeen year old with jeans so ripped it was a wonder they stayed up on his narrow hips and a tacky, dollar store trucker hat jammed over his hair.

Pete made his way back to the tiny room they’d been given to change in, could smell the heavy fug of thick, male sweat in the air as the four of them crammed in together. Joe and Martin were talking quietly as they stripped down, sweaty stage gear tossed into plastic grocery bags and shoved into holdalls. Patrick chugged water from a bottle as he hesitated in the corner. He wouldn’t undress in front of everyone, even as he shivered in his wet shirt.

“Going for a smoke,” Martin muttered as he grabbed his bag and left the room. “Meet you outside, Trick?”

“Yeah, sure.” Patrick murmured softly, took another deep swallow of water and watched Joe follow his brother. It was just Pete and Patrick. Patrick and Pete.

“You were fucking _insane_ out there tonight,” Pete grinned, clapping Patrick on the shoulder. He lingered for a second too long, felt it become a caress. Patrick took another sip then held out the bottle to Pete with a shy smile, the tips of his ears glowing pink.

Pete paused to yank off his shirt before grabbing it and tipping his head back, throwing the last inch or two of water into his mouth and over his face, felt it splash down onto his chest and shoulders. 

He heard Patrick groan.

It was bitten off quickly, by the time Pete had swallowed and lowered his eyes to Patrick the kid was already staring at his shoes like the fucking universe was contained in the scuffed, stained rubber of the toes of a pair of battered converse. Pete hadn’t considered himself gay but then he hadn’t considered himself straight either. He actually hadn’t considered himself much at all and realised right then that he demonstrated a startling lack of self-awareness for someone that was in the early part of his third decade on the planet.

“Trick?” He made the name a question, watched as Patrick shrugged miserably.

“You had to know,” Patrick whispered softly, face flushed, two blotches of pink high on his pale cheeks. The colour deepened as Pete stared at him, rising up from the collar of his shirt like sunrise over the lake. “I just… I didn’t…”

“Trick.” This time, he made the name an invitation, soft, framed by hungry lips and an eager tongue because the post-show high was still raging through him, those pure, crystal clear notes flaring over his skin, coursing through his veins and tacked onto blood cells like oxygen until they filled him, sent him soaring with them. 

“I… I… Just…” Patrick trailed off, confused, resting back against the wall, palms pressed flat to the stained paint work. “Don’t.” 

“Don’t?” Pete had stepped closer, filled Patrick’s space, _demanded_ it, close enough that Patrick had to scoot back even further against the wall to stop their bodies touching, blue eyes wide, heels, hips and shoulders pressed to the ridges and lines and mottled drips of badly painted breezeblocks as though he could slip right through it.

Pete followed him, absorbed the space Patrick had tried to buy himself, inhaled it greedily, felt the jut of Patrick’s hips pressed hard against his own. Patrick was taut as guitar strings, as tight as drum skins, head pressed back against the wall, eyes darting between Pete and the door. Pete brought his hands up slowly, deliberately placed them either side of Patrick’s head and leaned in, pressed his nose to Patrick’s throat and drew in the scent of his sweat; euphoria tinged with panic and topnotes of need. Patrick squeaked softly as skin touched skin.

“Sing for me,” Pete breathed into Patrick’s ear. He needed it, that voice - that fucking voice - needed to have it caress him and lift him, to fill his head with stars. Patrick’s breathing stuttered. Pete’s cock stirred.

“I… I don’t…” Patrick seemed to have lost the ability to form sentences. That was okay - Pete didn’t need him to speak. 

“Sing.” He pressed himself forward, let Patrick feel the press of his dick, thickened and hard, through two pair of jeans, felt the thrust of Patrick’s right back against him. He placed a bet with himself that Patrick had a pretty cock. “You want this? Then fucking _sing.”_

Patrick nodded, eyes wide and mouth drawn into a straight, anxious line. Pete wondered as he trailed a hand slowly down over the wet cotton of his shirt - absorbed the smooth contours of Patrick’s chest - if it was the first time he’d done anything like that. He seemed innocent enough.

“I’m good to go and I’m going nowhere fast,” Patrick began softly, somehow making the song slow and sultry, a lover’s touch of words and notes. It was a new one, one they were just trying out, just getting a feel for. It seemed… Strangely appropriate. Pete groaned and hooked a finger through Patrick’s belt loop, encouraged him to thrust back against him. Patrick gasped and faltered, bit down on his plump, pink lower lip.

“Keep going,” Pete growled low in his throat, the words resonating through his chest. Patrick nodded and tipped his head back against the wall.

“It could be worse I could be taking you there with me,” he paused to lean in and brush his mouth against Pete’s and for the briefest moment it was soft lips and wet tongues and breath stolen from one another’s lungs. Patrick’s palms were still flat to the wall, fingers splayed out like anchors, like they were the only thing that prevented him from being set adrift. “I’m good to go but it looks like I’m still on my own.”

Pete popped the button on his jeans, yanked down the zipper and pulled his cock free, pulled it up tight to his stomach then let it drop, let it bounce, full and firm and heavy, against Patrick’s, straining at the zipper of his jeans. Patrick still sang, no longer faltered, his voice gaining power as he mimicked Pete’s actions, one hand groping for his jeans until his cock was free - and Pete congratulated himself on winning that bet - and pressed to Pete’s. Hard velvet. Hips rocked in time; blood and sweat and heat. “I’m good to go for something golden though the motions I’ve been going through have failed, and I’m coasting on potential towards a wall at a hundred miles an hour…”

It was like prayer for Pete, filled him with religious fervour. His words, his thoughts, his _soul_ , repeated back at him by this… This fucking _angel_ with messy blond hair and the prettiest, thickest cock he’d ever seen. He dropped to his knees in worship. _That_ was his God; that moment, that boy, that voice, that _cock_. Patrick stuttered and faltered, missed a line but picked it right back up.

“When I say…” he drew out the last word sweetly, added melisma, eyes closed as he pushed his voice up into the heavens, bottom lip hanging lush and heavy.

“Two more weeks my foot is in the door, I can’t sleep in the wake of Saturday.” He pressed chords into the wall behind him, elegant fingers splayed out, voice sliding up as Pete leaned in and licked slowly from base to tip, tasted the salt of sweat clinging to skin, the bitter, sticky mess at the head. “Saturday, when these open doors were open ended, Saturday when these open doors were open ended.”

Pete tensed in anticipation of the next line, the next word, grasped the base of Patrick’s cock, all flushed pink and leaking, and slid his mouth over the tip with a groan as Patrick continued in barely a whisper.

“Pete and I attacked the Lost Astoria with promise and precision and mess of youthful innocence,” he stopped to heave a breath, to slide a hand into Pete’s hair and Pete fucking _thrummed_ with it, the touch, the voice, the deep blue eyes pinned on his. “And I read about the afterlife but I never really lived more than an hour, more than an hour, when I say…”

His eyes fell closed briefly, lips flushed and parted in a soft gasp as Pete began to slide his mouth down over Patrick’s shaft. He stopped, halfway down, waited until Patrick’s eyes were on him once more. Patrick rallied. “Two more weeks my foot is in the door, I can’t sleep in the wake of Saturday… _Fuck_ …”

Pete smirked at the curse, hissed between clenched teeth as he swallowed him down entirely, taking him deep into his throat. Patrick sagged at the knees as though the very effort of singing, getting off and standing were just too much. He stroked the pad of his thumb lightly over the crest of Pete’s cheekbone then licked his lips, left them lush, glazed wet and fuckable. Pete reached down and groped for his cock, squeezing his hand around his shaft with a moan. Patrick smiled then hit his stride, voice soaring clear and powerful, ricocheting off the walls and reverberating in Pete’s skull. “Saturday when these open doors were open ended, Saturday when these open doors were open ended.”

Pete tugged the jeans and shorts down in one smooth motion, left them snagged at Patrick’s knees. His hand slipped to Patrick’s ass, pressing the bass line of the instrumental against his pale skin as Patrick continued to hammer chords into the wall. The silent song grew around them, swelling and pulsing into a crescendo as Pete worked Patrick’s cock, sliding his mouth up and down, sucking rough and hard. Lips smacked, heavy, wet swallowing, spit pooled everywhere Pete’s lips touched.

“I read abou-... Oh shit,” Patrick groaned as Pete roared along with him around his dick, the vibration of his wordless screams thrumming up through his lungs, across his palate and tongue and straight onto Patrick’s cock. He paused, waited for Patrick’s eyes to open, watched him nod quickly before continuing. Pete continued with him. “I read about the afterlife but I never really lived, I read about the afterlife but I never really lived.”

Patrick’s cock twitched in Pete’s mouth, his hand moved from Pete’s hair to wrap his thumb and forefinger around the base in a tight loop. Again his voice had pierced the heaviness of the room, his thighs tense with the anticipation of another scream from Pete. “Two more weeks my foot is in the _door_ …”

Patrick was close, his thighs trembling. Pete pulsed with it, Patrick’s voice crackling over his skin like static, his heart swelling to fill his chest, crushing his lungs until it was hard to take a breath. 

“ _Me_ and _Pete_ in the wake of Saturday.”

Pete heard it in that line; that same fervour and want and need but it wasn’t directed at the music. It was directed at _him_. He knew he should… _Do_ something before Patrick’s needs and wants crashed into Pete’s like freeway wreckage. But he wasn’t going to _stop_. No, not with that voice all wrapped around him, pressing in on him, _crushing_ him.

“Saturday, when these open doors were open ended,” Patrick was taut and tight, stretched up onto his toes as Pete worked his mouth and tongue around his cock, stroking his own in time. “Saturday, when these open doors were open ended.”

Pete kept sucking, kept stroking, the noise of both utterly filthy, completely obscene, at odds entirely with the pitch and tone of Patrick’s voice - _that fucking voice_ \- clear and crisp and barely faltering as he reached for the first beautifully riffed falsetto of the closing lines. _“Saturday…”_

Pete’s mouth was full of come, flooded with it, sticky salty bitter that painted his mouth and lips. Patrick’s hips rocked gently as he breathed out the final notes, lips barely parted but pursed into a lush pout like rose petals as the music trickled from them. _“Saturday…”_

Pete joined him with a breathless sigh, shooting, pulsing, pooling on the rough concrete between Patrick’s feet, as though dragged from him by that voice alone. His cock began to soften in his hand as he smoothed down hard and purposeful, squeezing the last drops, the last tingles, the last moments of the blissful high from it. He leaned down and spat the mouthful of come to join his own, watched them mix and mingle and knew there was no way to extract them from one another. If Patrick was disappointed Pete didn’t swallow, he didn’t show it, head tipped back against the wall, chest heaving.

For a moment, the sweetest few seconds, Pete pressed his cheek to Patrick's shaking thigh, looked up at him through heavy eyes. Patrick's were closed, lips moving silently - curses, prayer, another song - Pete didn't know. He knew he wanted to trace each feature of Patrick's face with trembling fingertips, to kiss those swollen lips and lick at the soft pink tongue, the hidden ridges of his palate and teeth. He wanted to press him over the table where their bags were slung and fuck him until the only thing he could sing would be Pete's name.

Then blue eyes fluttered open, a shy smile, a careless caress of Pete's stubbled cheek with soft fingertips like butterfly wings and lover’s kisses and whispered promises in dark rooms. He couldn't do it. He couldn't drag Patrick - nothing but pure, white light - into his darkness. So he leaned back and swiped at his mouth with the back of his wrist.

“Change your shirt,” he muttered, hauling himself to his feet. “You’re fucking freezing, last thing you want is to get pneumonia and fuck your voice.”

“R-right.” Patrick stammered, fumbling to get his softening cock back in his shorts. He turned his back as he swept off his shirt and scrabbled for a dry one, threw over his hoodie then his denim jacket until he was all wrapped up and protected from both the chill January air and Pete's sudden icy coldness. “Maybe…”

“Maybe?” Pete repeated sharply - _too sharply?_ \- slipping on a dry shirt and swiping at the sticky mess on the floor with his dirty one. 

“Maybe we could switch the rooms around tonight?” Patrick suggested softly, gloriously pink and hopeful once more. Pete could imagine him, fuck-flushed beneath him, alight with sweat and bright, burning need. He imagined for a moment that Patrick could pour his light right into him, could brighten his darker edges and make them palatable, less bitter. “Joe and Martin could share?”

He didn’t need to point out that would leave Pete sharing with him. Pete’s stomach cramped; he wasn't, could never hope to be enough for Patrick. He'd drag him down, wear away his colour and then Patrick would leave and take that voice with him. No. Pete gritted his teeth against soft blue eyes and lush, pink lips.

“I don’t think so.” Pete pulled on his hoodie and headed for the door. “Look.. Just… Don’t make it weird, okay?”

He looked away so he wouldn’t see the hurt flash in Patrick’s eyes but he felt it just the same. He was seventeen. He’d get over it.

But they’re sixteen years on and he’s not sure Patrick ever _did_ get over it. 

“Patrick?” He interrupts softly. Patrick’s been talking endlessly about Hayley, Martin, their plans for a family, his plans for a family and some kid named Brendon until Pete’s thoughts are a fucking mess with words. Words that swirl around his head, banging off the sides of his skull and crushing him, pressing on him until he feels as though he's suffocating.

“Yeah?” Patrick’s breathless, with tears or determination Pete just can’t tell. 

“Patrick, man, this needs to stop.” He tries to keep his voice gentle, tries to inject understanding that he just doesn’t feel into his tone. He’s listened to this for seven years. Eighty-four months of Patrick’s emotional rollercoaster, Patrick’s schemes and plans for how he can get her back, how he can make it work with the three of them, how he can walk away. Always followed by Patrick nose diving when he realises she doesn’t want him back, Martin doesn’t play well with others and that he’s too fucking weak to break away from them. 

Most of all, he's fucking furious that Patrick's plans never include _him_ , angry that he never asks to be rescued, heartsick that he's never leaned on _him_ since he met _her_.

“But… They’re settling down,” Patrick murmurs, voice so fragile Pete’s sure a sharp tap could shatter it. “I mean… Three parents would be so much easier than two, right?”

Pete feels his patience give. In truth, it had only been held by the most delicate of threads that couldn’t possibly bear the weight of Patrick’s _need_ dragging at it any more.

“Patrick, they _don’t fucking want you_ , okay?” He snaps into his phone. He hears Patrick’s sharp, pained intake of breath on the other end of the line, knows he’ll have flinched back as though Pete’s physically slapped him. Sometimes Pete wonders if he ought to. “Seriously. Seven fucking _years_. When are you gonna take the _fucking hint?”_

“I… I just…” Patrick stammers quietly, the tears are thick in his voice, dripping over his words like molasses. “Pete… I can’t… I _love_ her.”

“Trick,” Pete takes a deep breath, smiles at Meagan apologetically as she rolls her eyes and mouths _“Patrick?”_ He nods, glances at the clock. They have a tickets for some event or other, some charity gala he thinks, and they need to leave. He does not have time for this shit right now as he stands by his front door in his suit and tie, Meagan in her beautiful dress. “How many times are we gonna go back over this?”

“It’s fine,” Patrick’s voice is flat. “I’m sorry I bothered you.”

“Trick?” Pete sighs, tension clustering at the base of his skull, a headache throbbing with his pulse. “Don’t be like that.”

“Whatever.” The line goes dead. For the briefest moment, Pete considers calling him back. Thinks about taking off his tie, kicking off his shoes and resigning himself to a night spent recounting each moment of Patrick and Hayley’s relationship, each pivotal point where he could have made things turn out differently. They’ve done it so many times, Pete could probably script the conversation. But he doesn’t. 

It’s not that he doesn’t care, he tells himself as he slips on his jacket. If there was something definitive that he could _do_ to fix everything for Patrick he’d do it without a moment of hesitation. But he _can’t_ and, frankly, he was bored of this shit five years ago. 

Pete thinks the thing that irritates him the most is that he made the wrong choice in that gritty little room. An honourable man would have changed his clothes and walked to the van. A passionate man would have grabbed onto that golden kid, taken him to bed and never let him leave. A weak man would have sucked the kid’s cock on a dirty floor then yanked down every shutter he had and left him hurting and confused.

Pete is a fucking weak man. He’s demonstrated that from the moment he let Martin drag him into a darkened room at the studio whilst they recorded Save Rock And Roll. It was the day he’d sat on the couch and dozed, eyes closed even as he felt the cushion next to him sink with Patrick’s weight, continued to feign sleep as Patrick reclined - slowly, carefully - and rested his head gently in Pete’s lap. He stayed still and steady until Patrick’s breathing evened out then allowed his hand to slip through the honey blond softness of Patrick’s hair, let himself lean down and brush the softest kiss to full, pink lips parted in sleep. He’d heard something - someone - and glanced up sharply, met Martin’s cold smirk and scowled. But later, in a gloomy room he could barely see the tattoos and it was too easy to give in.

He knows he only fucks Martin because he’s almost as good as Patrick. He can look at those blue eyes and pretend, kiss those lush, full lips and imagine, sink his mouth down over that cock and it’s “near enough”. The pain and humiliation that go along with it are just part of the experience, his penance, Hail Mary counted on beads of the rosary for sins against his object of worship. He knows he fucks Martin because Martin can take it, Martin’s empty, his darkness is deeper than Pete’s, blacker than anything he’s ever come across. Martin is dark silence in a cold room.

Patrick is technicolour and vibrancy and beautiful things. At least he used to be until Martin and Pete and Hayley and… fucking _life_ began to rinse the colour away. The kid doesn’t deserve it, he’s never deserved any of it. 

Pete makes his way to the waiting car, making idle small talk with Meagan. He smiles in the right places, makes the expected witty observations, goofs around but his heart is in Chicago, in a silent apartment and curled around a pretty blond kid - older, a little thicker around the middle than he was in sweaty rooms and some of his light extinguished - holding him close and reassuring him that everything’s going to be fine. He’d be lying though, because he has no intention of upsetting his life, disrupting his kids, ruining everything for something that would only go to shit anyway. Days? Weeks? Months? Maybe even a year or two. He’d destroy it eventually, Pete is the twisted, burning wreckage of a bombed out city and Patrick would be the collateral damage.

He laughs at something Meagan is saying as he remembers Patrick - broken, tear stained Patrick - at his door. Ashlee had just left Pete, Patrick had walked away from Hayley. Pete was hollow, gutted, empty and wanted Patrick to fill him with _something_. Something that didn’t have sharp edges that hurt, something soft and warm. Patrick had so much love to give and he poured it into Pete. 

Patrick begged him for one night, one chance to soothe and comfort one another. Patrick cried and clung to Pete’s shirt, grasped at his shoulders and _begged_. Pete was too weak to resist. He let Patrick kiss him, let their mouths meet and melt with all of the desperation of eight years of denial. He let Patrick drag at his clothes with growls and grunts, didn’t whimper as nails, zippers and buttons snagged and caught. He let Patrick suck his cock, deep and hungry, nails digging into hips.

He let Patrick fuck him, dry but for a lick of spit that quickly did nothing. They cried out in pain together at the friction, at the way it scraped and chafed but it was _good_ … It was real and grounding. It stopped the ache in Pete’s chest. It made everything quiet and still. Patrick’s come had burnt him, stinging, hot and perfect. He didn’t remember when he came undone but he must have because there was something warm and sticky pooled on his stomach as Patrick collapsed onto him.

Patrick had whispered that he loved him, that he’d always loved him. Pete had whispered that it was okay, that he understood. Because he _did_ understand. He understood that Patrick would never love him the way he loved Patrick. He understood that he would only ever be the unattainable best friend. The safe crush. He understood and he _raged_ with it.

Patrick had woken him the next morning, hopeful and nervous. Pete had crushed him again.

Patrick is broken.

Pete breaks Patrick.

In his pocket, his phone starts to ring. Oliver’s Army - _“See? I set it as something shitty, just for you!”_ \- for the briefest second, Pete thinks about answering. He hesitates, hand halfway to his pocket. Meagan sighs and smiles with reassurance he's sure she's faking. He lets his hand fall back to his lap.

The phone rings off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, once again, for taking the time to read. It would be really nice, if you have the time, if you could drop me a comment and let me know if it's pickling your onion or not. Or even just hit that kudos button - if you haven't already - as I'm crippled with self doubt and seek the validation of strangers on the Internet.
> 
> Same time, same place, same channel next week?


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Temptation  
> **  
>  tɛm(p)ˈteɪʃ(ə)n/  
>  _noun_  
>  noun: temptation; plural noun: temptations  
> 1.the desire to do something, especially something wrong or unwise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back - super excited to see you again!
> 
> Accompanying artwork is by the immensely talented Das_verlorene_Kind. Please go to her blog at http://das-verlorene-kind.tumblr.com/ and take a look at all of her other incredible work!

Brendon is in love with Chicago. He’s in love with the tall buildings that reach up towards the huge midwestern sky, with the glass green stretch of the lake, with the vibrant dirtiness of the place. Vegas is home but it’s sleazy and debauched under a veneer of money and glamour. Chicago is something else entirely, it’s rough, gritty and _real._

 

Patrick grins at him from the driver’s seat of his understated but oh-so-classy Audi sedan, his aviators reflecting Brendon’s face right back at him. He tries to smooth the childish excitement from his features; he’s a serious artist, he needs to chill the fuck out.

 

“Have you ever been to Chicago?” Patrick asks, pressing at buttons on the sound system.

 

“Nope.” Brendon shakes his head and tries to resist the urge to press his nose to the glass.

 

Patrick looks good enough to eat in his designer shades, pale grey t-shirt, tight black jeans and a dark fedora - very Martin - his soft blond hair gently falling against his brow beneath the peak. The velcro fasten sneakers are an odd choice but, Brendon has to admit, the overall picture is appealing. _Extremely_ appealing.

 

“I know I said I’d send someone to pick you up,” he shrugs apologetically. “You were probably expecting something a little more glamorous.”

 

“You kidding?” Brendon turns on his million dollar smile. “You’re the sexiest chauffeur I could have asked for - you’re even rocking the hat.”

 

“Right… Ah… Well,” Patrick stammers and blushes crimson. “So. We have a show tonight. Pretty small, only like, eight thousand people. I thought you could come? There should be some label people there I can introduce you to. Hand out some copies of the demo?”

 

_“Only_ eight thousand?” Brendon echoes wistfully. He can only _dream_ of eight thousand fans turning up in one place.

 

“You’ll be filling stadiums within two years,” Patrick claps a hand onto Brendon’s thigh and squeezes softly. Brendon blushes. It unnerves him a little, sets nervous fireworks fizzing in his gut as he stares down at the pale hand against the dark denim of his jeans. Patrick retracts his hand, rests it casually on the steering wheel. “We need to head straight to the venue if that's cool? I'm supposed to sound check in twenty minutes.”

 

They arrive and there's a flurry of people and noise and bustle and Brendon is lost amongst it, aches for it to be him, his turn. He follows Patrick in a daze, drunk on every detail of the crew setting up, the lower echelons of label staff rushing around to provide the band with every comfort they could wish for and… He _needs_ it to be him.

 

“Okay, come on, I'll introduce you to the guys,” Patrick leads him into a green room and there he is. Martin. Tight shirt and tighter jeans and lush lips. Brendon can't take his eyes off him as he shakes hands with Pete and Joe, somehow manages to tell them he's pleased to meet them although his tongue is cotton wool and his brain is misfiring. 

 

“And Martin, you remember Brendon, right?” Patrick finishes.

 

Martin looks Brendon up and down slowly. His blue eyes show not one iota of recognition as he goes right back to looking at his phone. “Nope.”

 

Interesting. A less confident man might be offended. Patrick looks awkward, flushes with embarrassment as he stammers through an introduction. Martin just shrugs without looking up.

 

Brendon watches the sound check. He schmoozes with everyone Patrick introduces him too, he is fucking charm personified. He ignores Martin who ignores him right back until Patrick finds him a triple A from somewhere and spends just a fraction of a second too long fixing it to Brendon's belt loop. Martin's eyes flicker with reptilian interest and speculation. Brendon knows he just became interesting.

 

He watches the set from the side of the stage and doesn’t understand the ease with which the two brothers assume their roles. They joke together, Patrick never leaves it more than a song or two before he's back at the drum kit for a grin, a muttered joke, a geeky fist bump. There’s something Brendon doesn’t understand going on beneath the surface. Something ugly and twisted and _dangerous_ and Brendon is no longer sure he wants to be part of it.

 

They leave the stage sweat-slick and steaming with vibrant heat, Patrick catches Brendon with a damp, searing hand on his waist, light enough to be casual, firm enough to be a whispered promise.

 

“There’s a… _Thing_. Some club. You can come along if you like?” Patrick, Brendon realises, is fucking terrible at sounding like he doesn’t care. He bristles with desperation and something else… _need want hope_. “Or I can take you to your hotel?”

 

“The _thing_ sounds good,” Brendon agrees eagerly. Patrick smiles and Brendon decides he likes the way it makes his eyes twinkle.

 

The thing turns out to be _amazing._ Patrick steers Brendon firmly around the room, introduces him as his protégé, offers to personally vouch for anything his band can produce. He’s on fire and Brendon feels a little stir of possessive attraction in his gut - networking Patrick is fucking _delicious._

 

He makes his way unsteadily to the bathroom, a little worse for wear on free drinks and giddy excitement, barely aware of someone walking close behind him until a hand slips around his wrist and, clearly familiar with the building, drags him into a small room off the hallway. Brendon yelps, jolts in panic and tries to drag his wrist free but relaxes when he meets familiar blue eyes.

 

“Martin?”

 

“Brendon, right?” He smiles, hard and dangerous. “Sorry I was kind of an asshole before. I just… Didn’t recognise you out of context, you know?”

 

“Oh. Yeah.” Brendon laughs lightly but it comes out as more a strangled whimper as Martin advances on him slowly. He backs away and recalls Patrick doing the same thing that night in Vegas as he bumps against the wall. Martin reaches into his pocket, carefully extracting a couple of wraps of coke and a condom, placing all three in a neat line on a ledge next to his bourbon. He looks up at Brendon with a smile and he can’t help but notice that although the set of the mouth is identical, Martin’s eyes don’t sparkle like Patrick’s. Martin advances on him, covering the couple of feet between them until he’s close enough that Brendon can feel the heat radiating from him.

 

Martin has him cornered. It no doubt looks ridiculous since Brendon is easily five inches taller but Martin is broad, strong and has the air of someone that doesn’t like to be refused. He trails the back of his knuckles lightly over Brendon’s cheek and it’s all he can do not to groan softly.

 

“You’re a good looking kid,” Martin murmurs in a seductive purr. “I’ve listened to your demo, you’ve got a great voice…”

 

“Thanks,” Brendon wishes his voice wasn’t shaking. This is everything he’s fantasised about, trapped in a room with Martin Stumph, pinned by a cold blue gaze that heats his skin like a fucking brand. “I should probably get back…”

 

“What’s the rush?” Martin’s hand slides casually down over Brendon’s chest, pausing to pinch his nipple through the thin cotton of his shirt. Brendon can’t quiet the whimper that slips between his lips as his eyes flutter closed. His cock jumps in his jeans as Martin’s hand trails lower, over his stomach, pauses at his zipper. 

 

“Patrick.” Brendon gasps as Martin’s hand cups his cock. He feels as though he’s been burnt as Martin grins, squeezes firmly and presses up hard against him. “Patrick’s gonna… He’ll wonder where we’ve got to.”

 

“Patrick,” Martin begins, leaning in and nipping deliberately at Brendon’s neck with his teeth. “Will know _exactly_ where we are.”

 

That isn’t a sentiment that soothes Brendon. He may be a lot of things - at least according to Ryan - vacuous, self-centred, vain, shallow… But he’s _not_ fucking stupid.

 

Martin has his jeans undone, is stroking calloused fingers lightly against the root of Brendon’s cock, lazily tracing a single fingertip back and forth. Brendon needs to redirect the blood from his dick back to his brain. He can’t _do_ this. Patrick… Patrick would…

 

“Maybe we shouldn’t…” He groans desperately, tries to shuffle away but there’s nothing but brickwork at his back and fucking _Martin_ everywhere else. _Fuck_ Patrick Stumph with his… his fucking _face_ that would be all sad if he knew… With his puppy dog eyes and… and his _mouth_ all soft and gentle and… _Goddamnit._

 

“I was thinking… Maybe I could introduce you to some producers,” Martin whispers into his ear. Brendon stiffens and grabs Martin’s wrist, pulling his hand back away from his crotch. Martin might as well have thrown a bucket of iced water over him. He does _not_ need to fuck anyone to get himself noticed. 

 

“Your brother already said he’d do that,” Brendon allows that to settle between them for a moment. Martin’s eyes darken with menace. “And he didn’t expect me to fuck him in return.”

 

“You think Patrick doesn’t want to fuck you?” Martin sneers. “You think he doesn’t think about that pretty little ass when he’s jerking off - alone - in his bed?”

 

“I think it’s not a proviso.” Brendon zips his jeans and smooths down his shirt. “If I _want_ to fuck Patrick, that’s okay. If I _don’t_ , he won’t hold it against me. Do you see the difference, Martin?”

 

“I don’t need to bribe some badly dressed scene kid to suck my dick,” Martin snarls coldly. 

 

“Hey, _you_ followed me.” Brendon points out then wonders why the fuck he’s goading him. 

 

“My bad,” Martin laughs, smile back in place. It’s not a pleasant sound. “I’d follow that cute little ass anywhere.” 

 

With that, he lands a hard smack onto Brendon's ass, hard enough to make his eyes water from the sting of it. With a final smirk, he grabs his bourbon from the ledge where it was abandoned, stuffs the coke back in his pocket and turns on his heel and leaves the room.

 

Brendon leans back against the wall for a moment, he needs to gather himself, he’s still half-drunk and full-horny. He could have been pushed to the floor by now, jeans kicked off, shirt on, Martin fully clothed but for his cock out of his pants. Could have been moaning and writhing as Martin fucked him senseless. But he's not. He said no.

 

“Bren?” Patrick greets him as he makes his way back into the club. There’s a warm hand in the small of his back and he stoops so Patrick’s lips can brush his ear as he speaks. “What… What're you drinking?”

 

“A strawberry daiquiri,” Brendon frowns as Patrick raises an eyebrow. It's a legitimate drink choice. “What?”

 

“Nothing… You okay?” Patrick frowns at him, clearly concerned. “You look… Has something happened?”

 

“I… I think I’m gonna head to the hotel now,” Brendon locks eyes with Martin across the room, there’s a cute little brunette wound all around him as she laughs at whatever he’s saying. Brendon tries to ignore the slow, cold smile and sarcastic wave that Martin shoots him. “I’ll get a cab. Just… Tell me where I’m going.”

 

“I’ll come with you,” Patrick offers. “My car’s right outside. I don’t mind driving you.”

 

“No,” Brendon can feel Patrick’s thumb rubbing small, absentminded circles against his skin - under his jacket, over his shirt. It feels… Nice. “Stay. It’s your… _thing.”_

 

“I hate _things,”_ Patrick rolls his eyes. “I only came for you. To help you. Obviously.”

 

Brendon allows Patrick to steer him through the crowds, to push him gently into the passenger seat of the Audi and even to lean over him and click his seatbelt into place. Patrick smells really fucking good, he decides, dragging in another lungful. There’s some kind of understated aftershave, sugar sweet notes of vanilla body wash, the faintest hint of fresh sweat and warm skin. It could be the rum but Brendon wants to fucking devour him. Neither speak as Patrick drives the short distance to the hotel, pulling up just down the street.

 

“This is it. It’s all booked in your name, paid for. You just need to check in.”

 

“Thanks,” Brendon looks at the building. The Peninsula. It looks classy, he’d have been grateful for some cheap motel as long as there was a bed and the door locked. “I really appreciate what you’re doing.”

 

“Your band’s good,” Patrick murmurs. “I like good music.”

 

“You want to come up with me?” Brendon asks quietly, resting a slightly damp palm on Patrick’s thigh. Patrick’s eyes drop to Brendon’s hand as he blinks slowly. He stays quiet, waits patiently and eventually Patrick looks up with a confused smile.

 

“To your room? Um… Why?” Brendon wonders if he’s faking it, just pretending to be coy but his blue eyes are genuinely puzzled.

 

“I thought we could hang out,” Brendon tries to inject meaning into his tone but Patrick just won’t fucking bite.

 

“We can hang out tomorrow. You said you were tired,” Patrick points out, perfectly reasonably. Brendon doesn’t want fucking _reasonable_ , he wants passion and hot, wet mouths and hard cocks and fingers that tease and explore. He wants Patrick to fuck him like no regrets. He slides his hand deliberately higher as Patrick, panicked, tries to scramble back in his seat. There’s nowhere for him to go with Brendon’s hand covering his cock and soft, expensive leather upholstery at his back. Brendon grins as he feels him start to harden under his palm. “O-oh…”

 

“Oh,” Brendon echoes with a roll of his eyes. “You’re really fucking bad at this.”

 

Patrick’s knuckles glow through his skin as he grips the steering wheel, his eyes fall closed and his head tips back against the seat as he arches his hips up towards Brendon’s hand. Brendon leans in - just as Martin had to him - and grazes his teeth lightly against Patrick’s throat.

 

“Stop,” Patrick snaps, pushing away Brendon’s hand. His fingers curl and uncurl around the steering wheel as he stares out of the windshield for a long moment. Brendon’s heart is pounding as he wonders what the fuck he did wrong.

 

“I’m sorry man,” he starts softly. “I just thought you wanted-”

 

“Is that how you think this works?” Patrick asks sadly. Brendon’s chest tightens and his heart aches for the guy but he’s not sure why. “You think you have to offer me something for me to help you out? A pity fuck?”

 

“No.” Brendon leans back in his seat and looks at Patrick carefully. This guy is _fragile_. “I just think you’re fucking _gorgeous_ , man. And you smell like chocolate caramels and… I just really want to fuck you again.”

 

“You don’t have to sleep with me Bren,” Patrick repeats quietly. “I mean, if I’m gonna help your band it’d probably be best if-”

 

“I don’t _have_ to,” Brendon agrees, wanting to cut Patrick off before he can reason his way out of it. He’s too honourable, too kind, too sweet. He’s the fucking anti-Martin. “But jesus, dude, I really fucking _want_ to.”

 

“You’re kind of drunk,” Patrick points out doubtfully. “On daiquiris.”

 

“That means I’m also kind of sober,” Brendon counters.

 

Patrick seems to mull it over for a minute, staring at Brendon with barely disguised want and need. Brendon has a notion that Patrick doesn’t do this alone all that often, reaches out and gently brushes his fingers against his cheek. There’s stubble there, just a little, just enough for a rough bite of friction against his fingertips that he’d rather feel against his thighs.

 

Patrick leans in, covering the gap between them as he cups Brendon’s cheek lightly. Brendon closes his eyes, licks his lips in anticipation of the soft fullness of Patrick’s mouth against his but he stops just short. Brendon can feel the warmth of his mouth, feel the damp heat of breath that smells of cinnamon as he whispers.

 

“Go check in. I’ll leave the car with the valet once you’ve text me your room number.” Their lips touch briefly, lightly, Brendon’s not sure it actually happened as Patrick is already sat back in his seat.

 

“You’re not fucking with me, are you?” He asks as he pauses, halfway out of the car. “I mean… I’m not just gonna be sat up there waiting like-”

 

“Did I lie to you last time?” Patrick’s voice is sharp. “Just go.”

 

“What about my bag-”

 

“Fuck, Brendon. Just _go.”_ He sounds thoroughly exasperated and - to Brendon at least - more than a little adorable.

 

Brendon goes. 

 

He finds himself in a room filled with things that look more expensive than every item in his apartment put together, texting Patrick the room number with shaking hands. He shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over the back of a chair; it’s a crushed velvet number in electric blue with black silk lapels, picked up from a thrift store back home and one of his favourite things. It looks shabby as fuck next to all of the opulence. He’s still hard, he’s fucking _burning_ with the need for Patrick to touch him. 

 

He takes a quick shower, rinsing off the smell of airplane and sweaty club, cleans himself up in readiness. He dresses quickly, throwing his jeans and shirt back on, cursing Patrick for not letting him grab his bag. He helps himself to a drink from the mini bar, just a can of Diet Coke, just for something to do with his hands as he waits, fidgeting, for Patrick to follow him. There’s a sharp knock at the door as he raises it to his lips and he tips half of the fucking soda straight down the front of his shirt, hissing a _“fuck”_ through clenched teeth as he swipes at it uselessly. His hands are still trembling as he places the can down on the desk and grabs the door, hoping Patrick won’t comment on the soda-covered shirt.

 

“What happened to you?” Patrick gestures to the stain, Brendon scowls.

 

“I’m apparently an idiot,” he laughs hoarsely, throat dry as nerves explode in his gut. “You… You didn’t need to book me a room this nice.”

 

“I didn’t expect to see it, if that’s what you mean,” Patrick snaps, fair brows drawn down into a frown. 

 

“I never said you did…” Brendon trails off with a sigh. Patrick shoves past him roughly, drops Brendon’s bag to the floor, collapses down into the armchair close to the bed and reclines back. He’s hard, the curve of his cock against his thigh beautifully on display through his jeans. He follows Brendon’s gaze, eyes flicking down for a second then back to Brendon’s, a smirk on his lips as he runs a hand slowly over himself.

 

“Do you like what you see?” There’s fresh arrogance to his tone - sharp and jagged - and Brendon isn’t entirely sure he likes it. But, as Patrick slowly unbuttons his jeans, slides down the zipper and pulls out his cock, Brendon has to admit that he _does_ like what he sees. He likes it very much. 

 

“Y-yeah,” he stammers, utterly transfixed by Patrick’s dick. He considers himself something of a connoisseur - there are certainly plenty of notches on his bedpost as testament - but Patrick’s is something else entirely. Thick and blush pink against the pale fingers wrapped around it, the tip flushed cherry red, slick and shining in a way that makes Brendon’s mouth water. Fuck if that guy doesn’t have the best looking cock Brendon’s ever seen.

 

“Then get over here,” Patrick enunciates each word carefully, as though Brendon is particularly stupid. “And fucking suck it.”

 

Brendon is silent. Wary. Takes slow, measured steps across the room. Words form in his head but seem to be lost on the way to his lips, he’s drifting further away from where he feels comfortable. Patrick is stroking slowly at his cock, eyes never leaving Brendon's face, lips still snarled up in that cold, cruel smirk. He lowers himself to his knees in front of Patrick, his pulse roaring in his ears like radio static as he slides his thumbs under the waistband of Patrick's jeans, drags them down as Patrick raises his hips and leaves them caught around his thighs. He lowers his head and brushes his lips softly against the head of Patrick's cock, tastes the salty tang that lingers there. 

 

Patrick groans softly as Brendon presses soft, delicate kisses against the cream softness of his thigh, the noise rising to a gasp as Brendon starts to nip gently at the skin with his teeth. 

 

“Kid?” Patrick growls low in his throat, thick with warning. “I told you to fucking suck it, not fuck around.”

 

Kid? Brendon doesn't like this, not at all, he raises his head to object.

 

“Dude, I-” He's cut off as Patrick grabs the hair at the back of his head and yanks him down, trying to force his cock between Brendon's lips.

 

Brendon resists, jerking back away from Patrick's hand with a yelp. He feels hair torn out at the roots. Not much - Patrick's fingers relax immediately - but enough to sting.

 

“Bren?” Patrick is panting, eyes wide, hands balled into tight fists at his sides.

 

“What the _fuck_ , man?” Brendon explodes, shoving back across the room on his ass until his back hits the bed.

 

“I'm sorry,” Patrick whispers, shame flushing him red as he scrambles to get his cock back into his jeans. “I just thought…”

 

“You just thought _what?”_ Brendon is suddenly white hot fury, he's pure screaming rage that Patrick would treat him like some cheap whore, that he would behave like… like… like Martin. “Oh.”

 

His mouth twists into a circle as realisation crawls over him. Patrick has his dick tucked away, is struggling with his zipper as he staggers to his feet. Brendon reaches out as he stumbles for the door, squeezes his thigh.

 

“I'm going,” Patrick doesn't speak but sobs, words rough and thick, slurring together. “I… I'm so fucking sorry, Bren. I didn't mean… I _wouldn't_ …”

 

“Patrick?” Brendon is on his feet in a moment, slipping between Patrick and the door. “Patrick no, don't go.”

 

“I shouldn't have… This was a bad idea. I'm just… I'm really fucking sorry, I-”

 

_“Patrick,”_ Brendon interrupts sharply, both hands braced against the blond’s chest as he fumbles uselessly for the door handle. “Will you _please_ just listen to me?”

 

“I… I…” Patrick trails off, eyes bright with tears as his hands fall uselessly to his sides.

 

“I get it,” Brendon whispers, cupping Patrick's face in both hands. Their eyes meet and he smiles, a gesture Patrick doesn't return. “You thought I'd rather be fucking _him_ , right? That's why you're acting like him?”

 

Patrick nods miserably, raises a hand and cuffs at his eyes. Brendon once again feels his heart lurch, Patrick is so fucking broken and he wants… He wants so desperately to piece him back together. But he's just some dumb kid with a fabulous voice and fucking amazing taste in jackets and he has no idea _how._

 

“Trick? Uh… Can I call you Trick?” Patrick nods again, the ghost of a smile brushing his lips. “If I wanted to fuck your brother tonight, I could’ve. He followed me when I went to the bathroom.”

 

“H-he did?” Patrick whispers softly, eyes flooding with hurt. “I... I didn't…”

 

“I turned him down,” Brendon continues. “Because - and don't let this go to your head - I couldn't stop thinking about how much I'd rather fuck you.”

 

“Oh,” Patrick whispers, shuffling back until he thuds against the bed, slumping onto his ass and burying his face in his hands. “I fucked this up, didn't I?”

 

“Nope,” Brendon follows him slowly, each step calculated so he lands precisely at Patrick's knees. “Just be yourself, okay? You don't need to be him. _You're_ enough.”

 

Patrick looks up and nods slowly. In the light of the lamp by the bed his eyes look sea green, his cheeks blotched pink. Brendon strokes his cheek softly, a brief exchange of smiles then he's gasping in surprise as Patrick smoothly unfastens jeans, pulling his cock free in one fluid move. Patrick holds eye contact - he fucking _commands_ it - as he runs his thumb deliberately along the underside of Brendon’s cock, finishing with a quick, flourished circle of the head. 

 

Brendon can’t look away, a high whine tearing from his throat as Patrick casually smooths his hand up and down Brendon’s cock. Brendon’s whole world has been reduced to deep, unwavering eyes, plump pink lips and a warm, rough hand, his breathing hard and sharp as Patrick’s breath ghosts over him. Patrick smiles, small and sweet, runs his tongue slowly over his lips and then, gaze still locked on Brendon’s, he leans in and takes the head into his mouth, tongue gliding, curving, flipping over the flare of it and Brendon’s groaning, hand fisted in strawberry blond softness, a dark grey fedora knocked to the floor.

 

“Oh fuck,” he whimpers, feels a light press of teeth as Patrick smiles, sees his eyes crease at the corners then that exquisite mouth is gone and Brendon’s lost, aching, desperate. “Please…”

 

Patrick pats the bed, “Come on. Lay back.”

 

Brendon scrambles to obey, flopping onto his back as he scrabbles up the mattress all heels and hips, fumbling with his jeans and growling as they snag and catch at his knees. Patrick laughs, soft and melodious, and Brendon makes a pact with himself that he’ll make him laugh every day which he knows is ridiculous but… He loses the thought as Patrick kneels over him, hair falling forward onto his brow, lips pursed in concentration as he urges Brendon out of his clothes. He reaches for Patrick’s shirt, for his jeans but he twists away each time. Brendon is stripped bare, cock curving up to his belly as he props himself on his elbows. 

 

He learns in the next few minutes that Patrick is a fucking tease, with hands that can give just a hint of delights to be delivered that whisk away that promise in a moment and move on to something new. His mouth is a revelation, sweet heat and a sinful tongue that flickers against sensitive skin, the hollow of Brendon’s throat, the crest of each rib, the tight stretch of skin over each hipbone, the length of each pale inner thigh and Brendon is fucking _begging._

 

“Just want to make you feel good,” Patrick whispers, kneeling between wantonly spread thighs and dipping his head, his nose brushing against the soft, sensitive skin of Brendon’s testicles. He bucks, whines, grabs at the pillows behind his head as a warm, soft tongue follows. He can’t take this any more, his cock aches, hard and hot, red with blood and need.

 

“Patrick… Fucking _please.”_

 

“Hey, shh,” Patrick soothes. “Just relax.”

 

Brendon tries, struggles to steady his breathing as Patrick runs teasing fingertips up his thighs but he’s lost to desperate whining as a warm, calloused hand slides around his cock and squeezes lightly. 

 

“Look at me, Bren,” Patrick whispers. Brendon does, eyes fixed on Patrick’s as soft, lush lips move towards his cock. “You… You can call me Martin? If it helps?” 

 

“Patrick,” Brendon groans, fingers tangled in soft blond hair, each syllable deliberate. “Fuck, _Patrick.”_

 

He stutters a curse that gives way to a wordless cry as Patrick slides his mouth slowly down over his length.

 

It’s sweet, overwhelming sensation, lips dragging, soft suction, a curious and skilled tongue that explores sensitive places. Brendon grabs a fistful of blond hair once more, groans with Patrick as that exquisite mouth begins to move. Brendon is already embarrassingly close, each limb, each muscle, each fucking _atom_ of his being taut and tense as Patrick sucks him, tastes him. A gentle, spit-slick fingertip circles his sensitive hole with inquisitive intent and Brendon loses it, fucking _explodes_ , a tight knot of moans and come and a desperate need for _more._

 

Patrick swallows every drop. His ocean eyes are serious as he moves to Brendon’s side and strokes his face, “Do you mind if I kiss you? I mean, I understand if you don’t want me to, I just suck-”

 

Brendon cuts him off with his lips, his hands framing Patrick’s face as he drags him in deep. His head spins with it, with the taste of Patrick’s mouth and his own come and the whisper of stubble against lips. 

 

“You,” he quirks an eyebrow in playful accusation. “Suck cock better than anyone I’ve ever met.”

 

Patrick blushes, smiles shyly and Brendon is alight with him. With skilled determination he sets about stripping Patrick down, urging him out of his shirt, pulling at his jeans as he kicks off his shoes and stammers out an apology, “I’m sorry… I know he looks better…”

 

“You’re fucking gorgeous,” Brendon repeats firmly because Patrick _is_. All of the same handsome features, the same wide blue eyes, the same nose and lush, full lips - Brendon could lose himself in that plump lower lip for _days_ , he's certain - the same curve to the jaw. But Patrick, he realises, is _better_. There’s kindness in those blue eyes, a sweetness to his smile, something appealing about the perfect alabaster of his skin in a scene that thrives on ink and scars. 

 

Patrick is sweating lightly as Brendon slips between his legs, his chest hitching erratically as Brendon circles that fucking beautiful cock with his hand and strokes quick and hard. He wants to absorb Patrick, to take him in and make him… okay. Like he can fix him with nothing more than his own body. It’s not love - he’s not naïve - he’s no one’s Prince Charming, but he… He cares. He _cares_ and that could be enough.

 

Patrick groans and writhes beneath him and Brendon can feel his cock stirring between his legs. Patrick glances down and laughs breathlessly, “Fucking twenty year olds…”

 

“Oh yeah, old man?” Brendon teases as he circles the pad of his thumb around the head of Patrick’s cock, grins victoriously as Patrick’s breath hitches sweetly. “Think you can teach me a thing or two?”

 

“Not sure,” Patrick groans. “Try sucking my cock and I'll call out feedback.”

 

Brendon laughs, low and breathless, dips his head and swallows down Patrick's cock in one well practised motion. He relaxes his throat as much as he can as Patrick begins to rock his hips, feels spit sliding down his chin, dampening the copper blond curls between Patrick's legs. He works a single finger - dry - into Patrick, guesses it might be something he’d like. He finds that spot and starts to rub, smirks to himself as Patrick yelps a _“jesus fucking christ”_ , cutting it off with his lip between his teeth. Brendon’s lips stretch a little wider around the thick heat of Patrick’s shaft.

 

“Okay,” Patrick’s voice is tight and high. “Generally good technique, could do with a little more tongue.”

 

“Fuck you,” Brendon pulls off with a laugh and extends his middle finger without malice.

 

“Oh yes. I'll definitely be doing that,” Patrick smiles as he rubs lightly at Brendon's cheek. “There’s lube and a condom in my jeans.”

 

“You keep lube and condoms in your car?” Brendon arches an eyebrow as he retrieves Patrick’s jeans and fumbles through the pockets.

 

“Only when there’s the possibility of fucking a hot twenty year old,” Patrick counters, a wide grin stretching those delicious lips. 

 

“Oh, you’re fucking me this time?” He flicks an appreciative glance down at Patrick’s cock.

 

“If you don’t talk your way out of it,” he reaches for the lube, stops just short. “Do you uh… Want me to? Or do you usually… Yourself?”

 

Brendon presses the lube into Patrick’s hand in response and stretches out on his back. Patrick slips down the bed until he’s level with Brendon’s hip, pulling his leg up and over, draping his thigh around Patrick’s shoulders. Brendon is perfectly exposed, stares down at Patrick’s lips, pursed in concentration as he uncaps the lube and squeezes some over his fingers. He begins his gentle exploration, two fingers lightly probing against tight muscle as he leans in and gently sucks on the head of Brendon’s cock. 

 

Fingers are inside of him, two then three, rocking gently in and out until they’re down to the knuckles. A hot, sweet mouth continues to lightly work his cock and he can barely breathe, his chest tight, his thigh tensing against Patrick’s neck as pinpoints of light prick his vision. He groans a complaint as Patrick’s mouth slides off him and his cock falls, wet with spit, against his thigh.

 

Patrick rolls on the condom with ease as Brendon wonders if he should have offered to help but then Patrick’s pressing between his thighs, urging him to wrap his legs around his waist and there’s that wonderful, electric-jolt nudge of hard cock against tight hole, that moment of you’re-never-getting-that-inside-me that Brendon thrills with every time he’s presented with a big cock. He reminds himself to breathe deep as the head of Patrick’s dick presses into him, just the head, slow and steady. He could take more, could take it faster and harder but that’s clearly not what Patrick needs right now so instead he relaxes, allows Patrick take his time. 

 

Patrick leans forward, hands braced either side of Brendon’s head, presses soft, sweet kisses against his throat, along his jaw, flickers his tongue against his ear before biting softly at the lobe. It tingles, tiny sparks of sensation with each brush of his mouth and teeth.

 

“Oh fuck,” Patrick’s breath is hot against his ear as he sinks into him completely. “I… Fuck, Bren…”

 

Brendon can only sigh in response, sure there isn’t enough blood in his body to sustain his brain and his cock, his head rolling back against the pillow as Patrick strokes his hair and with slow, orchestrated precision, begins to thrust. It takes seconds for him to find Brendon’s spot, to angle himself so he pushes against it on each drive in. Brendon groans, long and low, he can’t think any more, can just feel as he presses up a little higher onto Patrick’s hips, begging silently for all he can give him.

 

“Good?” Patrick’s fingers rake through Brendon’s sweat-soaked hair, a soft smile on his lips. 

 

“Good,” Brendon gasps, his body alight with desire as he presses his hand between their bodies, struggling to wrap his fingers around his cock. 

 

“No,” Patrick whispers. “Just… Not yet…”

 

He complies, lets his hands fall to the pillows above his head as Patrick thrusts, slow and deep, his mouth casually travelling along Brendon’s collar bone, peppering feather soft kisses all mixed up with light bites. Patrick shifts onto his knees, slipping Brendon’s leg over his shoulder and pressing in deeper. Brendon sees stars, grabs for Patrick’s hand and presses it to his cock, shuddering with desire as elegant, pale fingers wrap around his length and begin to stroke, firm and slow and in perfect time with his thrusts.

 

“You like that.” It’s not a question so Brendon doesn’t answer, just moans and arches his back. “You’re so good… So fucking good…”

 

He gives himself over entirely to the sensation, to Patrick’s cock inside of him, Patrick’s sweat slicked body between his thighs, Patrick’s hand pumping deliciously up and down his dick. He can barely tear his eyes from Patrick’s lips, flushed red and pouting, damp and shining.

 

“Come here,” he begs, voice hoarse with lust. “Fuck come here, I need to kiss you.”

 

Patrick adjusts once more, shuffling his knees back as he braces down, Brendon’s leg still over his shoulder, pressed tight to his chest as their mouths meet. He slips a hand around Patrick’s damp neck, strokes through the short, soft hair at the back of his head and laps greedily into his mouth. His leg creates some distance between their stomachs and gives Patrick just enough room to keep stroking his cock. He’s tense and tight below him, every nerve pulled taut in anticipation.

 

Patrick stutters to a stop with a low groan, his fingers flexing against the sheets.

 

“Oh fuck, keep going,” Brendon urges.

 

“I can’t,” Patrick groans, head thrashing from side to side. “I’m gonna come…”

 

“Fuck, me too,” Brendon gasps. “ _Please_ don’t stop…”

 

Patrick shudders with a gasped breath and nods, teeth gritted, begins to thrust once more as his hand goes back to working Brendon’s cock. Brendon can feel himself coiling tight, fire in his belly as he wraps his hand over Patrick’s, follows the motion without applying any pressure. Patrick’s eyes are squeezed closed, his lips moving silently as he rocks his hips. He’s flushed pink and glistening with sweat, it beads on his brow and across his chest and shoulders, his hair wet with it. He's fucking _beautiful._

 

“Oh god,” he whispers, fingers flexing desperately against the pillow next to Brendon’s head, lower lip slipping between his teeth. “Oh _fuck_ , Bren…”

 

Patrick cries out, his hips working frantically against Brendon’s as he comes and in an instant Brendon follows him, his own shout mingling with Patrick’s as they rock together, his come splashing against Patrick’s chest, dripping back down onto his stomach, sticky and warm. Brendon can barely breathe, can't think, is entirely consumed by the sensation of his body clamping down around Patrick's cock, his own dick twitching as Patrick works out the last few drops as he babbles complete nonsense, hips still pushing desperately against Brendon's as they both chase the last few glorious moments. 

 

Brendon feels shattered, as though he's constructed entirely of stars rather than flesh and blood and bone, his legs falling to the mattress as he sighs. Patrick nuzzles lightly against his neck, fingers threaded through his hair as he holds him close.

 

“Wow,” Brendon murmurs eventually. “You’re really fucking good at that.”

 

Patrick just smiles, withdraws gently and Brendon groans, hollow and empty. He moans softly as Patrick leans down, his tongue meandering over his chest and stomach, cleaning him with soft, gentle licks. Brendon drags him in for a kiss, slow and sweet, runs his knuckles lightly over Patrick’s cheek and feels his heart jump as he leans into the contact, desperate and grateful. 

 

They lie together, side by side, arms twined around one another as they kiss. Patrick kisses like a car wreck, fire and pain caught in lips and tongues. Brendon tries to soothe, to quell the flames with spit and touch but Patrick is a burning man and Brendon is only so much.

 

“Could I use your shower before I go?” Patrick whispers against Brendon’s lips. It's a question within a question, Brendon knows it and he knows Patrick knows he knows it.

 

“Who’s going anywhere?” Brendon sighs lazily, awash with thoughts of morning sex - maybe middle of the night sex too if the old man’s up to it. “You’ll stay, right?”

 

“Stay?” Patrick echoes softly, too full of hope and need to crush it down. “Um… Do you want me to?”

 

“I’d really like it if you did.”

 

Patrick falls asleep smiling and, as he drifts over himself, curled against Patrick's back, Brendon imagines he’s made things better, even if only for a few hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I can't thank you enough for taking the time to read this. I know I say it every week but I really would _love_ to hear what you think, even if you just want to tell me it sucks! Honestly, for someone that writes about Patrick being fucked by his imaginary twin I'm a surprisingly well balanced individual.
> 
> Also, next week? Hooooo, boy. Next week. Just wait and see. Shall we do it again?


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Rivalry**  
>  ˈrʌɪv(ə)lri/  
>  _noun_  
>  noun: rivalry; plural noun: rivalries  
> competition for the same objective or for superiority in the same field.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's Wednesday so you know what that means! Time for me to fuck up your week! Welcome back and thank you so much for taking the time to read.
> 
> Accompanying artwork is by the immensely talented Das_verlorene_Kind. Please go to her blog at http://das-verlorene-kind.tumblr.com/ and take a look at all of her other incredible work!

It’s not that Patrick doesn’t enjoy getting his dick sucked.

He really does, would definitely list it in the top five ways to spend his time if someone sat him down and asked him to write a definitive list. It’s also not like the girl currently sucking his dick isn’t good at it - she’s great - and even if she wasn’t, as long as there’s no teeth it’s something that pretty much always feels at least kind of _nice_. But, for some reason, his cock isn’t complying as it wilts slowly between her pretty lips.

This whole _thing_ was a fucking terrible idea. Martin’s predatory grin as he approached the two by the bar - a brunette and a redhead - Patrick’s arm gripped in his fist. The offer of drinks, the conversation that started light and flirtatious and ended up mostly pornographic. Then Martin had subtly slipped a small, yellow pill onto the tip of his tongue before kissing the redhead, pressing it into her mouth. The brunette had pouted at Patrick and asked for hers, he’d shrugged helplessly but Martin had obliged. Now they’re somehow in a sweaty heap on the hotel bed and Patrick has no fucking idea where his pants are. 

“Is something wrong?” She sounds equal parts offended, irritated and embarrassed as she pulls off, her eyes flicking disdainfully to his barely half hard dick.

Many things are wrong, he thinks to himself. 

“Seriously?” Martin raises an eyebrow as he glances down at Patrick’s cock from his position in the centre of the bed, cross legged with the brunette straddling his lap. 

“Fuck you,” Patrick snaps bitterly as he pushes the girl - whose name he can’t remember - back from his crotch and slips off the bed. “I’m just… Not in the mood.”

There’s a moment of silence as he leaves the room, then Martin’s voice drifts after him, “Well ladies, plenty to go around…”

Patrick slides down onto the couch in the living room of Martin’s suite. In truth, he just wants to head back to his room to gorge on crappy TV and crappier food but he still isn’t entirely sure where his pants are. He’s stranded. He flicks on the TV, watches the news and helps himself to a ridiculously expensive pack of chips from the mini bar. There’s been another suicide bomber in Baghdad, fifty-five dead including children - it’s depressing enough to put his own life into something resembling perspective.

It’s over an hour before the moans in the next room reach a crescendo, another ten minutes until he hears the girls leaving.

“You have my number?” Patrick thinks that might be the redhead - the one that was sucking his dick.

“Of course, you’re gonna be the first person I call when I’m back in town,” Martin does sincerity so very well. He doesn’t even falter.

“We could stay?” That must be the brunette, he can hear the hopefulness in her voice. Maybe she thinks she can usurp Hayley. Maybe she can, then Patrick could-

“Tempting,” Martin laughs, low and easy. “But I’ve got an early bus call. Go on, get out of here.”

They giggle, Patrick hears kissing, a few more murmured promises and the door clicks closed. Martin joins him on the couch, naked of course, eyes flicking over the TV without really seeing it.

“You’ll call her?” Patrick’s eyes don’t leave the screen.

“Hey, I might,” cruel laughter seeps through his words like poison.

“What was her name?” Patrick asks, the words barbed with spite.

Martin just laughs again and stares off out of the window.

“Mind if I grab a shower?” Patrick asks, already halfway to his feet. He can smell the girl’s perfume clinging to his skin. He could shower in his own room but then his clothes would smell of her. Martin shrugs and flicks the TV to another channel.

The hot water is soothing and the complimentary shower gel is one of the nice, expensive ones that smells of essential oils or herbs or something. He barely reacts as the shower door opens and Martin steps in behind him.

“It’s a little weird to shower with your brother,” Patrick points out with a sigh, stepping to the side as Martin reaches for the shower gel.

“Mom didn’t think so. She still has that picture of us in the tub,” Martin smirks.

“We were two, it was diff-... Oh…” Patrick trails off as Martin’s hand, slick with shower gel, snakes between his legs and grabs his soft cock expertly. He springs hard within a couple of strokes, leans back against the tiles and turns his head as Martin leans in to kiss him. “Don’t… It makes it too weird.”

Martin snorts derisively.

“Yeah, the kissing’s what makes it weird,” he leans in, undeterred, sucking on Patrick’s neck, the tip of his nose trailing against sensitive skin until his lips brush Patrick’s earlobe. “What was your problem? I gave you the hot one…”

“Just not in the mood, I guess,” Patrick groans as Martin stops stroking, just holds his hand in a fist for Patrick to thrust into. 

“But you’re in the mood now?” Martin pinches Patrick’s nipple lightly as he growls into his ear. “Or is it just me you’re hard for?”

Patrick stays quiet, thrusting his hips quick and hard against Martin’s fist, moaning softly. He hasn’t had time to think about it, to analyse it in the way he usually does and Martin is doing everything he knows Patrick loves.

“Fuck, that feels so good,” Patrick groans as Martin rubs his thumb lightly over the slit.

“Yeah?” Martin presses closer, his lips brushing against Patrick’s. “I could do more. I could suck your cock _way_ better than that cute little redhead… I could eat your ass until you fucking explode… I could fuck you through the fucking wall…”

Patrick’s close and drawing closer, his hips moving frantically against Martin’s hand. Delicious pressure is building between his legs, each thrust pushing him closer and closer. He slides a hand around the back of Martin’s neck and drags him closer, intent on jamming his lips against the ones that mirror his own, just to stop him from fucking talking. 

This time it’s Martin that dodges back at the last moment, shifting them so Patrick’s back is pressed to his chest, so he can press his lips to Patrick’s neck. He sucks - hard enough to leave a mark, but low enough that it could be hidden by a shirt collar - nudges Patrick’s legs apart and thrusts a couple of slick fingers inside of him. It hurts enough to elicit a gasp but not enough to stop it from feeling good. Patrick is teetering.

“She’s pregnant, you know,” Martin purrs into his ear. “Hayley? About nine weeks.”

Patrick does nothing but gape, mouth open as his hips slam to a stop. Words flood his brain, words like _you’ve got to be fucking kidding me_ and _this was the best moment you could find to tell me_ and _I fucking hate you_ but none are making their way past his vocal chords. He half turns and stares at his brother in bewildered disbelief.

“Aren’t you going to congratulate me?” Martin’s smirk widens. “I’m gonna be a daddy.”

Patrick feels sick, his vision is blurring with tears and water from the shower as he shoves Martin’s hand away from his cock.

“Get the fuck away from me,” he manages to whisper as he stumbles from the shower, staggers to the bedroom and somehow manages to drag his jeans and shirt back on even as they stick and snag on his wet skin. Martin’s laughter follows him, haunts him like a fucking revenant as he tugs on his shoes and makes his unsteady, choking way to his hotel room.

It’s inevitable that he can’t find his room, can’t remember which hallway it was down, can’t find his fucking key card even if he could find the fucking room. But he remembers Pete’s - 337 - trips his way down plush carpets and past tasteful artwork. He’s shivering - shock or cold, he isn’t sure - his teeth rattling like the fucking L past the bedroom windows of the first apartment he and Martin shared. 

“Patrick, you okay?” Pete is nothing but concern in amber eyes, comfort in wiry arms as he pulls Patrick close, wet and trembling, and hauls him bodily onto the bed.

Patrick allows himself to be cradled, lets Pete rock him like a child in his arms as he sobs his heart, his soul and enough tears to leave himself severely dehydrated into Pete’s shirt. 

“He told you.” Pete whispers eventually, Patrick can feel his fingers tracing patterns on his damp back, scoring out a song against his skin, all five digits dragging lengthways across his back then retraced with clefs, notes and rests. He wonders if it’s a love song but suspects it’s more likely to be a call to arms. He nods against the soft, worn cotton of Pete’s AC/DC shirt. 

“Wait,” he glances up, confused, hurt, burning with fury. “He told _you?_ W-when did he tell _you? Why_ would he tell you?”

“He just… In passing,” Pete flushes and Patrick does _not_ fucking believe him. “He figured you’d take it pretty hard, gave me a heads up…”

“I’m fucking _done_ ,” he whispers and he rings with it, he can’t live through another moment of this. He wants to stop, wants to cease, wants to go back to the belt around his neck and not call anyone, just let everything end because he’ll never be brave enough to do it again. “I’ve fucking _had_ it with them.”

“I know,” Pete gusts a sigh so deep it ruffles Patrick’s hair.

“I mean it this time.” And he does. The determination burns him from the inside because fuck, he’s wasted every single one of his thirty-three years on his brother, he won’t waste a moment more. That in mind he rolls until he has Pete’s gaze, grips at his shoulders as the words he’s wanted to say for sixteen years boil over. “I… I fucking _love_ you.”

Oh, he’s said them before. But today they demand an answer. They hang over them like stormclouds, heavy and menacing and thick with thunder. Overcast kids. He should say that out loud, it would make Pete smile.

“Pete?” He scrambles to straddle him, sits back against his crotch as he repeats himself softly. “I said I love you.”

“I know you do,” Pete murmurs gently. “I love you too.”

“No,” Patrick is vehemence and need wrapped up in an aching ball of heartbreak and hurt as he yanks desperately at Pete’s shirt, bends and bruises the tawny skin of Pete’s chest and stomach with lips and teeth. Like tattoos. Like brands. “I _love_ you. Not as friends. I’ve loved you since I was seventeen… God I… I can’t…”

Pete grabs at his face, fingers digging into his cheeks, eyes searing into him as Pete gasps like he’s drowning. Maybe he is. Patrick certainly feels like he could be as he grips Pete’s hips just as hard. The last two survivors clinging to their raft. 

Pete nods then drags Patrick into a kiss that feels more like a fist fight. They battle one another for dominance, tongues and lips and hands that grip until fingernails break skin. Pete’s hand finds it’s way into Patrick’s jeans, dragging at his cock that’s already thick and hard and hot for him. Patrick ruts desperately against Pete’s palm, his thigh when the hand is withdrawn, crying out not just in pleasure but in need, he fucking _needs_ this. 

“I love you.” 

He mumbles it against Pete’s neck as their shirts are pulled away, whispers it against his honey-sweet collarbone, sighs it against his ridiculous Bartskull tattoo and murmurs it reverently into neatly trimmed black curls that smell of musk and _Pete._

He sucks Pete down, deep and hungry, like he did that night in Pete’s shitty, post-divorce apartment. Pete yelps his name, his hands fisted into his hair as he fucks his mouth. Patrick gags briefly, tears mingling with the spit that pools from the corners of his mouth. It’s not pretty or romantic - it’s frantic and rough - he wants to absorb Pete before he changes his mind. Pete twists up, slips a hand under his ass, raising his knees and attempting to get his fingers inside of himself as Patrick sucks him. 

“No,” Patrick hisses, rakes his nails down Pete’s sides until there are angry, red welts. “I want you to fuck me.”

He’s knocked onto his back with a grunt, struggles with his jeans, cries out long and loud as Pete’s mouth sinks over his cock. It’s been sixteen fucking years but the memory is fresh, the reality better, plump lips and dark eyes, “I fucking _love_ you…”

He grabs his legs under his knees, hauling them up against his chest, exposing himself completely to Pete. He just wants everything to fall silent, knows exactly what he needs to have that happen.

“Please,” he whispers, groaning as his cock falls from Pete’s mouth. “Please just fuck me.”

He feels the slick slide of Pete’s tongue between his cheeks, working into the tight pucker of muscle, trying to get him to relax. He doesn’t want to relax, he wants it to fucking _burn._

“No,” he snarls, grabbing at Pete’s hair and attempting to drag him up. “Just _fuck me.”_

“Dude, will you fucking calm down?” Pete is between his legs, cock nudging and pressing against him. “Look at me…”

“Pete… _Please_ …” There’s a hollow ache in his chest, emptiness in his stomach. His throat stings from tears he’s already shed, tears that still need to fall and tears he knows he’ll hold back. Pete is looking at him sadly, shaking his head slowly.

“I… I can’t do this…” Pete whispers simply. “I love you.”

“Then why won’t you fuck me?” Patrick’s voice is weak, small, pathetic. Everything he knows he is. “Why… Why don’t you _want_ me?”

“Because I can’t be your consolation prize,” Pete shrugs with nonchalance that doesn’t match the pain in his eyes. “Because I can’t be the one you use to self medicate. Because... you don’t love me how you think you do.”

“No,” he grabs for Pete desperately, nails sinking into slim hips as he struggles to sit, bodies pushed up against one another. “I love you, I’ve _always_ fucking loved you.”

“Until you loved her,” his face is cupped in Pete’s hands as lips brush his slick with salt and regret. It tastes like photo booth kisses - like making a memory. “I can’t wreck my life for second best.”

For a second, Patrick just clings on, arms around Pete’s waist, cheek pressed to his shoulder. He can feel humiliation burning in his stomach, as bitter as bile, his skin flushing with it. It’s chased by anger, white hot fury that spills from him unchecked and uncontrolled. His hands curl into fists, nails biting into his palms as he leans back.

“Fuck you,” he hisses, pushing back across the bed and fumbling for his shirt. Pete kneels in the centre of the bed, cock still dark and hard. Patrick wonders if he should punch him, if it would make him feel any better to feel those long-adored lips split under his knuckles. He can’t control the tears as he drags his jeans and shoes back on and Pete… Pete doesn’t move. He just kneels, eyes on Patrick as he heads for the door. He pauses before he opens it and glances back through a blur of salt and pain. “I love her because you didn’t give a fuck. I was seventeen. I… I waited almost six fucking _years_ for you. But you always chose someone else. I was _seventeen_ , Pete.”

“Patrick, wait-”

He pulls the door closed behind him, he can’t listen to another word of Pete’s bullshit. His chest aches and all he wants to do is slide to the floor of the hallway and scream until his throat is shredded and bleeding. Instead he turns and - because he has absolutely nowhere else to go - heads back to Martin’s suite.

“You’re back,” Martin greets him at the door with a smirk. Patrick is relieved to note he’s pulled on some sweatpants since he left. 

Patrick pushes past him and makes his way to the mini bar, grabs a handful of miniatures and begins deliberately unscrewing them, tipping his head and tossing them back. After the seventh, he looks up, the burn of the alcohol perfectly matching the ache in his chest. Martin is slouched against the wall, hands in his pockets, still smirking.

“I’m not going to tell you I’m happy for you,” Patrick begins defiantly. “Because I’m not. I fucking _hate_ you sometimes.”

Martin’s smile widens as he scratches at the back of his neck.

“You… You _stole_ her from me,” Patrick hisses, throws back another drink. “Everything you do with her - it should’ve been me. _I_ should’ve married her. _I_ should have that house. That should be _my_ baby. You treat her like fucking _shit_ , if she was still with me I wouldn’t be fucking my way through the high school population of whichever city we’re in. I wouldn’t be drunk or coked up or stuffed full of fucking _pills_. _I_ deserve her, not you.”

“But she married _me_ ,” Martin’s eyes glow with malice for a moment. “All that shit I do… Every random fuck… And she _still_ chose me. She knows she could have you back - fuck, you make it obvious enough - but she doesn’t fucking _want_ you.”

Patrick feels as though he’s been punched in the stomach, sucks in a breath and tenses with it. Martin’s never actually hit him, not even when they were kids, he’s never needed to. He’s always known exactly what to say or what to do to make Patrick hurt, to make him ache and to fill him with inadequacy. He gives in, slides to the floor and cries out, a noise wracked with agony as he drags at his hair and punches at his own face. Within moments there are strong, tattooed arms around him, hands just like his own gripping his wrists and pinning them to his sides. He struggles for a moment then gives in, slumps, lets the grief pour out of him.

“I told him,” he sobs into Martin’s neck, he doesn’t need to clarify who or what, Martin knows well enough and Patrick knows it. “He doesn’t care either. Fuck… I’m so fucking pathetic.”

“I keep telling you,” Martin murmurs soothingly. “I’m the only one - the _only_ one - that gives a shit about you. You don’t need anyone else.”

“You have Hayley,” Patrick protests weakly. Everything he does is weak. Pathetic. “I just… I wanted someone for me.”

“No one wants you,” Martin whispers gently. It’s so rare that Martin is gentle. Patrick presses closer to him like he could be reabsorbed, like he could correct the aberration of the egg splitting. “I don’t know why. But you have me. Hey, now she’s pregnant you can fuck her again - would you like that?”

Patrick nods, leans his cheek against Martin’s chest, feels the tickle of the soft, dark blond hair scattered there and rakes in calming lungfuls of his brother’s scent. They’re interrupted by a tap at the door, two identical heads snapping towards it in unison. Patrick can’t move, feels weighed down, just wants to stay pressed up against Martin with his familiar smell and touch.

“Martin?” Pete’s voice drifts through the wood. Patrick’s heart leaps as his stomach drops. “You in there?”

Martin untangles himself from Patrick, rises lithely to his feet.

“Martin, don’t,” Patrick hisses desperately. He can’t face Pete right now, he _can’t._

“Go into the bedroom,” Martin murmurs softly. “I’ll get rid of him. Then we’ll… Hang out, okay?”

He means they’ll fuck. He means he’ll expect Patrick to suck his dick, to spread his legs for him, and Patrick? Fuck, he’ll do it. He’ll do it if it means he gets to share a bed with a warm body tonight. So he hauls himself to his feet and slips into the bedroom, paws away tears and waits with the door cracked as Martin opens the main door.

“Wentz,” he greets him coldly, not moving back.

“Is Patrick there?” Pete snaps. There’s no love lost between the two of them, Patrick can hear the dislike in each carefully enunciated syllable. 

“No.” Martin’s voice is short, clipped with precision, like the tap of his snare. 

“I don’t believe you,” Pete’s voice chokes with desperation - to see him? Patrick’s heart leaps, a little at the thought. Maybe he’s changed his mind. Maybe Martin’s wrong and someone else _is_ capable of loving him. 

“Would you like to come in and take a look?” He sees Martin take a step back, watches him gesture back over the suite with a sarcastic flourish. Pete steps inside, hair and clothes dishevelled, cheeks blotched and eyes rimmed red. Patrick aches for him, wants to pull him against his chest and apologise for any of the hurt he’s caused. “He’s not here.”

Pete shoots a pointless glance at the empty couch, his eyes lingering on the empty liquor bottles strewn by the window. Nothing unusual for Martin. 

“ _He’s_ not here,” Martin repeats, closing the door behind Pete and turning with a predatory smile that Patrick doesn’t like. “But _I_ am…”

“Don’t,” Pete whispers as Martin moves closer, measured, cat-like steps that Patrick’s seen so many times before. He doesn’t understand. Martin _hates_ Pete.

“Relax, baby,” Martin purrs. He’s too close to Pete, no more than a couple of inches between their bodies as he slips his hands to Pete’s narrow hips. “Daddy’s got you.”

Patrick’s heart is slamming against his ribs, blood roaring in his ears as he watches through his crack in the door. He watches Pete hesitate for a moment, sees amber eyes flick to the door for the briefest second and then he’s surrendering to Martin’s lips against his. Patrick silences the anguished cry that threatens to tear from his throat by biting down hard on his knuckles. He’s not watching a first kiss, not a second nor a third. He’s watching a kiss borne of familiarity, of tongues and lips that know one another. It fucking _destroys_ him.

Martin has his hands twisted into Pete’s hair as their tongues battle for a moment and Patrick feels sick, his stomach cramping as his knees give way and he folds to the floor by the door. Pete does the same, as though mirroring Patrick, mocking him, his hands dragging greedily at Martin’s sweatpants, that cock - identical to Patrick’s in every way - springing free.

“Beg me for it,” Martin’s voice is low and teasing, his blue eyes bright with boyish mischief as he holds Pete’s head just out of reach of his cock. 

“Please,” Pete groans. Patrick digs his nails hard into his thighs to stop himself from sobbing - Pete will beg Martin, fucking _beg_ him, for the very thing Patrick offered up to him. Patrick would have given him his body, the rest of his life, his fucking _soul._ But Pete would rather beg _Martin_ for permission to suck his fucking cock. “Oh god, _please.”_

“Oh, good boy,” Martin grins wickedly as he relaxes his hold on Pete’s hair, lets him slide in and take his cock deep down his throat. He rolls his head to the side, eyes roaming lazily until they lock with Patrick’s, the grin spreading slowly across his face as he shoots him a deliberate little wink. “You fucking love sucking my cock, don’t you?”

Patrick’s going to be sick, he can feel the bile burning the back of his throat as his gut twists painfully. He gags quietly, forces it down, braced on his hands and knees as he stares at the floor for a moment. He needs to get away from the door, needs to move some place he can’t see, to lie on the bed and pull the pillow over his head until he can’t hear. Martin is groaning like a fucking porn star but Patrick can still hear the smack of Pete’s lips against hot, hard flesh that should be his but isn’t. Patrick looks again.

Pete’s dark head is moving as he slides up and down Martin’s cock, his hands gripping Martin’s hips, toffee against cream. That’s how _his_ skin would look next to Pete’s. His face is wet, drenched with hot, silent tears that he cuffs at desperately. He needs to _move._

He doesn’t, stays kneeling on the carpet by the door, peering through the crack as Martin shoves Pete onto all fours. Patrick’s cock is hard and aching between his legs and he wants to ignore it but he can’t, self hatred burning almost as much as the bile in his throat as he pulls it out of his jeans and starts to stroke himself. It’s self abuse in it’s truest form, his hand twisting agonisingly against his cock as Martin kneels behind Pete, and rams a couple of fingers into him completely dry. Pete’s eyes spring wide, his back arching as he cries out in pain and surprise.

“Dude… Stop…” He pants. Martin just laughs cold and hard, twists his fingers in that little bit deeper as Pete lets out a tight, agonised little groan. Patrick’s lips twist up in a grotesque parody of a smile, a needle of spite sliding, cold and slithering, down his spine - let Martin hurt that bastard. Let him rip that motherfucker apart. Martin lines himself up, nails biting into Pete’s hips. Pete struggles against him, his voice desperate. “Martin… Wait! Fucking wait…”

His protests give way to a noise Patrick hasn’t heard anyone make before, part delighted moan, part anguished scream as Martin slams into him. No lube. Not even a slick of spit. Patrick drags at his cock as he imagines the burn of it, imagines the pain Pete must be experiencing as he twists his fingers into the carpet. 

Good. Patrick hopes he fucking _bleeds_ for this.

“Don’t pretend you don’t fucking love it, you fucking whore,” Martin growls, a hand wound tightly in Pete’s hair as he starts to thrust into him, each jerk of his hips hard and deliberate and accompanied by a sharp yank on Pete’s hair.

Patrick watches Pete’s entire body go rigid, his eyes so wide they’re practically bulging and his mouth twisted into a grimace. He should intervene… Martin’s fucking _hurting_ him and Patrick’s just watching and touching himself? He’s as fucked up as Martin, completely disgusting…

“Oh fuck yes,” Pete sighs, breathy and soft, eyes fluttering closed. The sob slips past Patrick’s lips and there’s nothing he can do to stop it, can only bite down on his hand once more to dam the tidal wave of identical sobs that threaten to sweep him away and drown him. Pete’s head flicks towards the door, eyes heavy as Martin continues to slam into him. “What… What was that?”

Martin just drags viciously at the black hair tangled between his fingers, letting go to rake his nails down Pete’s spine. Pete arches into it like a cat, groaning Martin’s name softly. Martin locks eyes with Patrick once more, smiles as he starts to speak, his voice low and soft.

“You love it when I fuck you like this, don’t you?” Pete whimpers his response. “ _I said_ , you fucking love it, don’t you?”

“Yes…” Pete grunts. “I love it when you fuck me.”

“Do you think _Patrick_ could fuck you like this?” Patrick tenses, his eyes pleading with Martin to stop even as he continues stroking roughly at his cock. Martin dips his hips a little, slamming his cock into Pete’s prostate, Pete looks close to collapse, sweat rolling from his brow, arms trembling, head thrashing loosely. Patrick prays he’s too far gone to answer.

“No,” Pete’s moan tears him apart. 

“No, _what?”_ Martin prompts, the expression on his face - sparkling eyes, wide grin - suggests it’s all the most hilarious joke to him. 

“He couldn’t,” Pete stutters, drawing close. Patrick’s sickened to realise he is too, all of the stimulation of the past hour or two coupled with seeing exactly what it would look like if he fucked Pete is too much. “Couldn’t fuck me like you do.”

Patrick no longer tries to control the tears. They stream down his face, roll off his chin and fall onto his shirt as he carries on stroking at his dick, twisting until it burns. He’ll never be anything to anyone. Martin will always win. 

Pete howls as Martin drags out of him, whimpers as Martin rises to his feet and drags him to his knees in front of him. Martin has one hand around Pete's throat, squeezing hard, the other hand around his cock - just like Patrick, so very like Patrick - jerking himself hard and fast.

“Open your mouth for daddy,” he laughs breathlessly. Pete obeys, of course he does, doesn’t even object as Martin rubs the tip of his cock against that plump lower lip that Patrick has silently worshipped for the better part of two decades. Pete’s stroking himself frantically, all three of them getting themselves off together.

Patrick comes with Martin, his brother’s groans enough to drown out his own anguished little cry. Pete whines in the back of his throat as Martin’s come pulses across his face, into his mouth, down his chin and chest. Patrick’s thighs are a wet mess of sweat and come, one hand bracketed against the wall as he squeezes his cock and watches Pete. He watches his face contort with pleasure as he starts to come, watches his choppy motions on his blood-dark cock, watches him collapse forward and bury his face between Martin's thighs, watches as Martin shoves him away roughly and tells him to get dressed and get the fuck out of his room. Patrick would have held him close afterwards, would have stroked his fingers through Pete’s hair, kissed his fuck-flushed lips, fallen asleep wrapped around him.

Pete would rather this painful and humiliating abuse by Martin than anything Patrick could give him. Hayley would rather let him fuck anything that moves, deal with his coked up temper tantrums than be with Patrick.

Patrick watches. Patrick is _nothing._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry. No, really, I am. I... I can hug you? If you need me to? Also I am _so_ slutty for feedback so if you have two minutes please let me know what you think so far.
> 
> I'm also on tumblr - sn1tchesandtalkers - so add me and we can send each other awesome memes. I think that's what the kids do these days.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Homecoming**  
>  ˈhəʊmkʌmɪŋ/  
>  _noun_  
>  noun: homecoming  
> an instance of returning home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! It's Wednesday, are we all sitting comfortably for our weekly dose of Martin-induced emotional trauma? Then I'll begin...
> 
> Accompanying artwork is by the immensely talented Das_verlorene_Kind. Please go to her blog at http://das-verlorene-kind.tumblr.com/ and take a look at all of her other incredible work!

“I really like this colour for the nursery,” Hayley flips the colour chart around so that Martin can see.

 

He's hunched over a cup of coffee at the kitchen counter, eyes puffy and red, skin sallow and sticky with sweat. He staggered through the door less than an hour ago, before the sun came up. She's been struggling to sleep with morning sickness and back pain or she wouldn’t have been aware, somehow it makes it harder to see him drag himself into the house, scratches on his back and bourbon on his breath. She should be used to this by now. 

 

“What do you think?” She prompts him gently, nudging the book in his direction.

 

“Whatever,” he doesn't even glance down. “It's just a fucking room. Paint it however you want.”

 

She falls silent, stares down at the granite countertop between them. This is how he’s reacted to everything she’s tried to discuss with him concerning the baby. She rubs a hand softly over her swelling belly, feels butterfly flutters against her palm. She’s sure a normal husband would be eager to cup his hand against the taut skin, to feel his child kick against his palm. She’s sure Patrick would have responded with nothing less than wide-eyed wonder, would have been the type to devour What To Expect with her, skipping ahead sneakily so he could try to impress her with his knowledge of foetal development.

 

The one time she’s managed to press Martin’s hand to her belly he flinched away, grimacing, as though the thought of the baby inside of her disgusted him. 

 

“Martin,” she begins softly. “Would you look at me, please?”

 

He rolls his eyes and glances up, bored, “What?”

 

“I’ve been thinking,” her voice shakes a little.

 

“Oh fucking spare me,” he snaps, seems irritated as she flinches back before continuing sarcastically. “No, please, go on.”

 

“I don’t want you to sleep with other people any more,” she blurts out before she loses courage. 

 

He laughs. Throws his head back in delight and laughs, long and loud.

 

“You’re kidding, right?” His voice is as cold and as hard as his eyes. “We had an agreement. You’re not fucking everything up because of fucking _hormones.”_

 

She falls silent, blinking rapidly against tears that swell - sharp and bitter as blood - at the back of her throat. Her mind is a whir of _Patrick would_ and _Patrick would never_ and _Martin can’t_ , the thoughts running over one another before she can complete them, before she can examine them. The words fall from her lips like muscle memory, like half forgotten oaths.

 

“I want Patrick,” she pauses for a moment before scrabbling to add more. “Back in this. How we used to.”

 

Martin sneers at her. There’s a tiny cut on his lower lip, she notices, a blood red crescent that would be perfectly mirrored by some unknown man or woman’s incisor. She knows that if she checked his jacket pockets she’d find a dusty bag, remnants of his excess, unshatterable reminders that she’ll never be enough for him. She supposes she shouldn’t take it personally, Martin isn’t capable of devoting himself to anyone. 

 

“Is that an ultimatum?” He barks out another cold laugh. “Or a threat?”

 

“Why should you get to shove your dick anywhere it feels good while I stay home alone?” She shrugs delicately. “Do you really begrudge me some company while you’re out doing… Whoever?”

 

“Patrick,” he begins with a rolls of his eyes. “Doesn’t _want_ you. I told him he could fuck you again months ago - do you see him _rushing_ to take his turn?”

 

“Do you even want this baby?” She asks softly, ignoring the stab of pain at the idea that Patrick doesn’t want her.

 

“Honestly?” He pauses and takes a sip of his coffee. “Not one bit. This was your idea, your dream, not mine.”

 

“A-are you _kidding_ me?” Her chest constricts tightly. “You… You said-”

 

“I said I’d do it if you wanted,” he shrugs. It’s a lie, she knows it, but realises too late that everything he offered was done because he didn’t want her getting too close to Patrick. That he’d realised there was a risk she’d bounce back to him. “But I’m not changing anything. We have an arrangement, it works, it doesn’t need to change because you wanted to indulge your maternal instincts. If you wanted someone that was going to spend hours picking out colour schemes and shopping for, I don’t know… Fucking baby socks, you should have stayed with Patrick. He’d have fucking _loved_ that shit.”

 

“Maybe I should,” she whispers, heart breaking as she laces and unlaces her fingers, digs her nails into her palms to stop herself from slapping him, hard, across the face. “I know you think he’s weak but he’s… He’s a good man.”

 

“Oh please,” he scrapes a hand through his hair, the usually glorious strawberry blond hanging lank and mousey between his fingers. His shirt is damp under the arms and between his shoulder blades and he smells of sour sweat and spilled liquor. She recalls Sunday mornings in bed with Patrick, pots of freshly brewed coffee and fat, flaky pastries from the bakery on the corner, sugar sweet vanilla bubble baths and crossword puzzles, warm hands and soft, inquisitive lips. 

 

“What do you _want_ , Martin?” She whispers, almost afraid of his answer. He looks at her speculatively for a long moment.

 

“How far along are you?” He asks finally. Her stomach cramps with pain - he can’t even remember that.

 

“Twenty three weeks on Tuesday,” she mutters, watches as he types something into his phone before looking up with a grin.

 

“Hey, it says here you can still have an abortion in Illinois,” he pivots the screen to show her. “If we call the doctor first thing tomorrow morning-”

 

“Fuck you,” she doesn’t resist the urge any more, pushing back her stool as she stands and lands a hard slap across his face. He catches her wrist and squeezes hard - hard enough to make her gasp in pain and struggle desperately to free herself.

 

“Don’t you ever lay a fucking hand on me, do you understand,” he snarls, standing and twisting her wrist painfully as he brings his face very close to hers, the stench of liquor on his breath enough to have her reeling back away from him. “Why don’t you fuck off back to your _boyfriend.”_

 

With that he shoves her backwards, puts his full weight behind it and, whilst he might be a relatively short guy, he's taller than her and strong with it. She staggers, loses her footing and falls awkwardly into the counter. Pain explodes across her ribs as she slides down the cabinet door to the floor, winded and clutching her stomach. 

 

He doesn't even look at her as he leaves the room and stomps heavily upstairs. She clutches at her bump protectively, hands and arms cradling as though she can physically protect the life inside of her. There's panic rising in her chest, constricting her breathing further as the baby lies quiet and still. Please move, she pleads silently, please, please, _please_ move. Her face is hot and wet with tears - panic, fear, pain, hurt - all of it bubbling over into huge, wracking sobs. 

 

But then she feels it, a tiny nudge against her palm. A silent _it's okay mommy_ that calms her a little as she stays on the floor, back to the cabinet she spent months agonising over when they first bought the house. Martin hadn't cared. Just told her to pick something and he'd sign the check.

 

She can hear him moving around upstairs, there's the shower followed by his heavy footfalls across their bedroom floor then silence. He'll have gone to bed, will stay there until mid afternoon. He could have hurt the baby, _knows_ he's hurt her and he's sleeping. Cautiously, she pulls herself awkwardly to her feet, presses her fingers into her underwear and between her legs to check for bleeding, sighing in relief when they come away clean.

 

She moves quickly, grabbing a bag from the downstairs closet and rummaging in the laundry room for a couple of changes of clothes, some underwear. She drags on her coat and snatches up her car keys, slipping out of the house as silently as she can and into the car. Martin can go fuck himself.

 

Within twenty minutes she's leaning on the buzzer of the exclusive apartment block she hasn't been to in months. It's seven in the morning on a Sunday, she knows she might be waiting a while for a response.

 

“Who is it?” She's surprised to hear the intercom crackle into life within a few seconds. The voice sounds panicked - well, it's early and it's Sunday after all, not a time for casual visitors - and she's crying again as she tries to reply. “H-Hayley? Hayley, honey, is that you? I'm buzzing you in just… Just come straight up.”

 

Patrick meets her at the elevator door, his face ashen as he takes in her bag, her face, the way she's clutching her stomach. She hasn’t seen him since that day at the pier, he’s been avoiding her studiously. He looks terrible; at least a week’s worth of stubble clinging to his jaw, skin and eyes dull and he looks as though he’s gained twenty pounds. He moves towards her, arms raised then pauses, unsure, takes a half step back. She throws herself at him, presses her face to his neck and sobs. For the longest moment he stiffens against her, arms still half raised but not touching her but then he relaxes, gathers her against his chest and holds her close.

 

“Shh,” he whispers as he rubs small circles into the small of her back. He's so gentle. So warm and soft and _kind_. “It's okay, whatever it is, it's okay. I'm here. I've got you.”

 

She finds herself on his couch, wrapped in a blanket as she shivers - it's shock kicking in, not cold but it's sweet of him nonetheless - a steaming mug of tea cradled in her hands as he stands awkwardly against the wall. 

 

“Could you sit with me?” She whispers, pain exploding in her chest as he hesitates. This is the man that would eagerly crawl into her bed six months ago and now he looks terrified to even be in the same room. “Patrick, _please.”_

 

He nods dubiously, each step he takes towards her reluctant. He lowers himself carefully onto the couch, at least a foot of the leather between them. She huddles closer, presses into his side and rests her head on his shoulder. He smells clean and sweet, obviously fresh from the shower. Lazy Sundays. How would they be with a baby? Maybe a walk around the park instead of crossword puzzles and unhurried sex. Movies on rainy days. Cuddling and laughter and _stability_. She's crying again.

 

“Shh,” he murmurs, wrapping a cautious arm around her. “I'm right here. Do you… Do you want to tell me what's happened?”

 

She contemplates that for a moment before stretching up to brush her lips softly against his. He freezes for a second then gently eases her back, eyes raw with pain. He shakes his head slowly and whispers, “No. No, we're not… I can't… No. But if you need to talk…”

 

She does, pours out everything, Martin's cold reluctance over the past few months, his escalating destructive behaviour and finally, his pièce de résistance this morning telling her to abort the baby he'd allegedly wanted. Patrick holds her in silence, his hand moving gradually up her back until he's stroking her hair, fingers weaving softly between the strands, his breathing low and soft and reassuring.

 

“What do you want, Hayley?” He asks quietly, breaking the yawning silence.

 

She thinks about that for a moment - what _does_ she want? She wants stability for her baby, wants to feel safe and secure and loved. She wants to know the man in her bed is satisfied with her alone. She strokes his cheek softly, doesn't pull back when he flinches.

 

“I want you,” she whispers, tracing the sweep of his lower lip with her thumb. He shifts, clearly uncomfortable.

 

“I love you,” he mutters, eyes anywhere but hers. “Fuck, I love you so much. But that's not going to happen. I… I can't deal with sharing you any more. It's killing me.”

 

“No,” she shifts and hauls herself into his lap. It's not graceful, she feels like a hippo as she groans, back aching from pregnancy in general and the force of her earlier fall. He stiffens, arms at his sides and head braced back as though he wants to push his way back through the couch to get away from her. She can work on that. He'll change his mind. He always does. “I _just_ want you. I made a mistake. This should be your baby.”

 

She reaches for his hand and his arm is limp as she rests his palm against her belly. As though on cue, she feels a tiny nudge just below his hand. He tenses, eyes darting to hers.

 

“Was that…?” His voice is soft, reverent.

 

“Yeah. They obviously like you…” She smiles, sees her way in. “What do you say, little one? Do you think he'll make a good daddy?”

 

“Hayley, stop,” he pleads, hand still pressed to her bump. “I can't…”

 

“Do you remember what we talked about on the pier?” She asks, cupping his face in her hands. 

 

“No,” he moves her hands gently to her lap, shifts under her and she realises he's half hard. “Hayley, don't.”

 

She does. She has to. 

 

“You said a DNA test wouldn't work if the fathers are identical twins,” she continues. “Is that true?”

 

“Standard tests, yes,” he mutters, avoiding her eyes.

 

“What do you mean _standard_ tests? Could he pay for something else?”

 

“No,” Patrick sighs and rubs at his brow. “There are tests that could tell our DNA apart but they're not… Look, basically unless you think he wants to invest hundreds of thousands of dollars in proving you wrong and signing himself up for child support...”

 

She nods and presses her lips to his neck, soft and teasing. He gasps quietly, bites the noise off as his hands ball into sharp fists at his sides. She reaches down between them and presses her hand firmly between his legs, feels the familiar, urgent press of his cock against her palm. He bites his lip and screws his eyes closed, presses back into the couch away from her but she can feel his resolve crumbling as she kisses her way to his ear in the way she knows drives him wild.

 

“I want you,” she whispers, let's her tongue dip inside for a moment and feels him shiver. “I want us. We can be a family.”

 

“Hayley…” It's a plea, he's _begging_ her to stop and she knows he doesn't have the strength to fight her. 

 

She has her hand inside his pajama pants, fingers circling his cock, tugging and stroking as her lips find _that_ spot just behind his ear. She doesn't know where he finds the strength but he grabs her wrist and pins it gently to her side as he gasps for breath like she's been holding him underwater.

 

“Hayley, I can't fucking do this,” his voice is thick with tears. “I can't deal with you changing your mind in a week.”

 

“Patrick,” she slips astride him, one knee either side of his thighs and, in spite of his objections, he clings to her. She reaches for the hem of her shirt and he watches, though she knows he doesn't want to, as she slips her it up and over her head. She feels his fingers twitch against her hips and knows he wants to touch. Then she hears his agonised gasp and knows he's seen it. The vicious bruise spreading its way across her ribs. “This is what he did.”

 

“What… What the _fuck,”_ he's horrified, eyes wide as he touches the tips of his fingers to it. “What did he _do?”_

 

“When he told me to get rid of the baby he… He had this _smirk_ on his face,” she pauses, Patrick nods sadly. “I hit him. I’m not proud of it.”

 

Patrick doesn’t say anything, she can feel tears burning again as she continues.

 

“He grabbed me, twisted my arm,” Patrick tenses a little below her, fingertips grazing over the bruise once more. “He pushed me, I fell. W-when I landed he… He kicked me. He’d been out all night, he had… Had his boots on. I think he was aiming for my stomach but he was still drunk…”

 

She collapses onto Patrick’s chest, tucking her face into the crook of his neck as she cries. The tears are real, even if her story isn’t entirely true. But she needs to shock him, needs him to want her again. It’s gratifying when he whispers, his voice hard with fury, “I’ll kill him. I’ll… I’ll fucking _kill_ him…”

 

“Patrick no,” she sobs. “Please…”

 

She cries and he holds her, she thinks he might be crying too. After a time he smooths her hair back from her brow and wipes her eyes with the pads of his thumbs.

 

“We’re going to get you checked out,” he declares. “Then I’m getting you some breakfast from that bakery you like. _Then_ , we’re spending the day on the couch watching movies. You need to rest.”

 

“So, does that mean we-”

 

“No,” he cuts her off sharply, as though the word burns his tongue. “But you can’t go back there. You can stay here, I’ll take the guest room.”

 

He won’t be in the guest room. She has a day of lying under blankets in a darkened room with him, of the close proximity of their bodies. A whole day to accidentally brush her hand against places he’s decided are forbidden. She can persuade him.

 

He barely makes it to mid-afternoon.

 

He’s stretched out on his back on the couch, she’s draped over him, cheek to his chest, legs tangled together. They’re watching something truly terrible starring James Franco - at least it lights the screen though neither of them are paying attention, each nerve tightly focussed on the other - the TV lending flickering shadows to the room that’s otherwise dim on a snowy Chicago afternoon. She raises her head to look at him just as he glances down, eyes meeting and locking. He bites his lip, nips it between his teeth and she watches him trying to convince himself to look away, can see him internally battling his instincts with his intellect. She sees the moment his resolve crumbles entirely, a flicker of self loathing that skitters across his face as he accepts he doesn’t have the strength of will. That he’s weak.

 

She seizes it, pushes her mouth hard against his. He doesn’t lean in but doesn’t resist, his lips parting and allowing her to brush her tongue against his. 

 

“We really shouldn’t do this,” he whispers - she knows he’s talking to himself - as his hands thread their way into her hair. “This is a really fucking bad idea.”

 

Her hand is in his sweatpants and he’s already hard for her - it’s always the same, he’s always so _eager_ \- his hips arching up as he groans softly. Clothes are shed until they’re both bare to one another, his hands soft and adoring as he strokes her belly, cups the new heaviness of her breasts.

 

“Come on,” he murmurs, eyes clouded with lust and love and want. “I’m not fucking you on the couch.”

 

She takes his hand and lets him lead her to his bed, laughs softly as he mutters under his breath, “If this were one of those shitty romance novels, I’d carry you. But I’m, like, four feet tall and I can’t lift for shit…”

 

They lose themselves in exploration of one another’s bodies, a gentle nibble on a hipbone that elicits a soft gasp, a soft bite where thigh meets groin that draws forth a shuddering moan, a kiss to the hollow of a throat that has hands fisted into hair. She sucks his cock until he’s coiled tight, begging her to stop before he comes. He slips between her thighs and teases her with his talented lips and tongue until she shudders against him with a whimper of his name.

 

After what feels like hours of sweet, teasing torture he guides her on top of him, hands on her hips as he gazes up at her with softly parted lips and heavy eyes.

 

“Wait,” he whispers, just as she’s about to lower herself onto him. She pauses, looks at him curiously. “Are you… Are you sure? If this isn’t… I mean, if it’s not permanent, we can just stop. I won’t… I won’t get upset. You can still stay, it’s just I-”

 

“Shh,” she presses a finger to his lips to silence him, slides down over his cock, both of them moaning as he fills her, stretches her, possesses her completely. Once he’s completely inside of her she stills, feels his hands stroking desperately against her hips. “I love you.”

 

“Oh god,” he sighs, the tension leaving his body as he relaxes under her. “I love you too, I love you so fucking much…”

 

She thought he would slam into her, that he’d be eager to mark her as his again, to come deep inside of her but he takes his time, guides her slow and easy against him until it’s her that’s begging. He maneuvers her under him carefully, presses a sweet kiss to her lips before pushing into her once more, shivering as she sinks her nails into his shoulders. His hand is between her legs, bringing her close to her release maddeningly slowly, the peak rising and pressing inside her, her legs tight around his waist.

 

His lips - cherry red and lightly swollen - are soft against hers, his hips rolling slow and sweet. When she comes, crying his name, she feels him let go above her, feels his hips stutter against hers as he whispers a groan into her ear, feels the warm flood of him filling her. He stills, sweat-damp forehead pressed to hers, his eyes closed lightly.

 

“I love you,” she whispers, stroking her fingers through his damp hair.

 

“I love you too,” he murmurs. “Wait right there.”

 

He pulls out gently, hurries to the bathroom and returns with clean towels, helps her clean up then leaves the room again, returning with their movie snacks and drinks, setting the two of them up in the bed in comfort as he switches on the TV on the wall. She curls against his chest and looks up at him, at his troubled frown. He doesn’t trust that any of this is real, she knows that. She can persuade him.

 

“This baby is ours,” she whispers, pressing his hand to her stomach once more. “He can’t prove otherwise - I don’t think he even wants to.”

 

Patrick nods, smiles faintly and rubs her belly gently. 

 

He orders in for dinner, ruefully informs her there’s nothing in the kitchen other than frozen pizza and pop tarts. He’ll do a grocery shop tomorrow, he promises, fresh fruit, vegetables, all of the things she needs to grow a healthy baby. 

 

She jolts awake at three in the morning, naked and confused, reassured by Patrick’s deep, even breathing beside her. She checks her phone and feels a little clench of desperation that there’s nothing from Martin then feels disloyal, pushes the thoughts away. She cuddles back into Patrick, hears him sigh, content, as he gathers her close.

 

Patrick relaxes as the weeks pass. She persuades him to buy a christmas tree, horrified that he’s never had one in the apartment. They spend the holiday locked away from the world feasting on one another by the soft glow of the tree lights and the candles he lights around the room. Hayley can’t bear the thought of spending the day with his family, answering their questions, dealing with loaded stares and comments so had fallen quiet and withdrawn when he suggested it until he backtracked desperately. 

 

Exhausted and shining with sweat they collapse on the couch and watch shitty christmas movies, eat ice cream and discuss names. He loves Declan for a boy, Audrey for a girl. She can think of worse names so agrees, kissing him softly. He plans to decorate the guest room, says they need a crib, a dresser, a bassinet and a whole host of educational and stimulating toys and accessories that he's read about, a top of the range stroller, the safest car seat, all researched with his findings saved into a special folder on his laptop. He comes alive with it, glows with it, he’s going to be the most wonderful father.

 

She still crawls with disappointment every time she checks her phone. She feels guilty each time, tries to assuage it by throwing herself at Patrick, dragging him to bed - or the couch, or the floor, whatever is most convenient - and doing everything she can to make him feel good. When he's crying out her name, his face contorted with ecstasy, his cock deep inside of her, it's the only time she can feel okay. It's the only time everything stills inside of her.

 

It’s early February and she’s thirty-three weeks pregnant. Martin hasn’t spoken to her since that morning. Patrick does band stuff with him, doesn’t mention him when he gets home, but _has_ brought back a suitcase of her stuff that he unpacked without a word into his closet and dresser. He’s preparing for a European tour, he’ll be gone for a month but before he leaves he’s determined to finish the nursery.

 

She sits cross legged on the floor amongst the dust sheets and watches him painting the walls a soft oatmeal. He’s a vision of concentration, tongue poking from the corner of his mouth as he brushes the paint carefully against the plaster. There’s paint flecked in his hair like snowflakes, spatters of cream across his cheeks and nose, he looks adorable and she feels a warm rush of affection. He may not be the most exciting man in the world, but he’s consistent and kind and sweet and oh so gentle. She could do worse.

 

“So,” he begins, his back to her as he continues his work. “I’ve been thinking.”

 

“Oh?” She’s sifting through the prints she ordered - vintage Winnie the Pooh - they’re going to look adorable on the pale walls.

 

“When are you going to get a divorce?”

 

The question comes from nowhere and she has no idea how to answer. In truth, she hadn’t really thought of anything longer term than the next couple of hours since she arrived, shivering and bruised, at his door two months previously.

 

“Why are you asking?” she asks after a lengthy pause.

 

“Well, you’re living in my apartment, telling me you want me on the birth certificate. You love me, right?” He still hasn’t turned, he’s pretending there’s something insanely complicated about drawing the paint drenched brush over the wall. “Why would you want to stay married to him?”

 

She stays silent and studies the floor, he’s usually pretty quick to drop difficult topics if he thinks he’s upset her. This time he doesn’t, he climbs back down the ladder and turns to face her with a smile. He looks good, she notices absently, happy, relaxed. His eyes are warm and seem to have lost that haunted look they always held, like he was always waiting for the next blow.

 

“Because I was thinking,” he continues. “And if you want us to be a family, we should probably think about getting married ourselves.”

 

“Are you… proposing to me?” She asks with a laugh, trying to deflect the intensity of his questioning.

 

“Not yet,” he kneels on the floor in front of her, brings his lips very close to hers. “But it’s something to think about, right?”

 

He stops talking when she pushes him back, pulls down his pants and takes his cock into her mouth. By the time he’s done, hips arching and soft moans slipping past his lips as his come floods into her mouth, he’s suitably distracted and doesn’t resume the conversation.

 

He goes on the tour, calls her a couple of times a day. He’s on the phone for her check ups, listening to the baby’s heartbeat on speakerphone, calls to say goodnight and that he loves her each night before she goes to bed, no matter what time it is where he is. Sometimes she hears Martin in the background but usually she doesn’t.

 

When he gets back there’s barely two weeks until her due date. They retreat to their bedroom to catch up on lost time, to make the most of their last few weeks of freedom before parenthood begins. The nursery is finished and beautiful, the only thing missing is the baby. Patrick talks endlessly about how they need to start looking for a house, somewhere with a backyard, spends hours trawling through real estate websites for houses in the suburbs with good schools and low crime rates. 

 

Four days after he gets back she hears a familiar voice from the door of the apartment, hears Patrick replying quietly.

 

“What are you _doing_ here?” He asks the visitor as she enters the hallway herself. Her eyes lock with Martin’s and her knees buckle slightly. He smiles at her, slow and easy.

 

“Hey momma bear,” he greets her. 

 

Patrick is still talking, she can hear him telling Martin to leave, his voice low and no-nonsense. There’s no panic there, he’s pretty secure these days, he just repeats firmly that there’s no need for Martin to be here, he’s upsetting her and it’s not good for the baby, could he please give Patrick his key back and leave. Martin just laughs.

 

It’s no more than three minutes before she steps back into the hallway and moves towards the two of them. Martin is the one facing her, his grin widening as he leans back against the wall, boot kicked back against it casually, thumbs hooked in his belt loops. 

 

“Martin, just go, I don’t want to call the cops but I will if I have to. She doesn’t _want_ you…”

 

Patrick turns, a look of exasperation on his face that changes, as though in slow motion, to confusion, then realisation, then undisguised, crushing pain.

 

He sees her jacket. Sees the suitcase. Martin reaches for her and drags her into a kiss, his tongue sliding into her mouth like he’s claiming her, her moan lost against the soft fullness of his lips. He pulls back after a moment or two, slips an arm around her shoulder, guiding her out of the apartment and back down the hallway. Patrick doesn’t say a word as she walks past him but she hears his agonised sobs the moment his door clicks closed behind them. She knows she should feel terrible and, on some level, she does, but as she presses a little tighter into Martin, heaves in the familiar smell of his leather jacket, revels in the strength of his tattooed hand against her arm, all she can feel is relief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt like a horrible person writing this. Don't worry, I took a long, hard look at myself in the mirror afterwards and asked myself if I was proud. Kind of am though. Not gonna lie. 
> 
> Anyway, if you're reading this quietly and haven't hit the kudos button yet, please do, it's always nice to know people are reading and enjoying. And if you had a minute spare you could send me a comment and tell me what you think - even if it's that I suck, I get that a lot, I can take it!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Despair**  
>  dɪˈspɛː/  
>  _noun_  
>  noun: despair;  
> 1.the complete loss or absence of hope.  
> 2."a voice full of self-hatred and despair"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My goodness, it's that time of week again. Sitting comfortably? Then I'll begin...
> 
> Accompanying artwork is by the immensely talented Das_verlorene_Kind. Please go to her blog at http://das-verlorene-kind.tumblr.com/ and take a look at all of her other incredible work!

Patrick's not sure how long he's been slumped on the couch, curtains drawn and bottles accumulating around him. If he were to care enough to work it out, he could probably track the hours in empty whiskey bottles. But he doesn't care.

 

His phone vibrated to start, lighting up with calls and messages and names of people he didn’t want to speak to. It's fallen silent and dark now. Maybe it's the battery or maybe it's absorbed his mood. 

 

There are scabs on his knuckles, thick and blackened, a murky burst of bruises beneath them, browns and purples, greens and yellows. Dried blood is crisp and rough between his fingers and down under his fingernails. But it doesn't hurt as much as it did so it must be healing which means it must have been at least a week - probably longer - since he tore the nursery apart. He smashed everything, every piece of furniture, every picture, there are holes in each wall like gaping, ugly wounds, the pale paint splashed with his blood.

 

He has no idea if it's day or night outside, the curtains shut out the light regardless. His stomach cramps and he’s not sure if it's nausea or hunger. He tries to remember when he last ate in relation to when he sank the last few drinks to try and figure it out but everything is a blur and he doesn’t care enough for the answer to expend too much energy worrying about it. 

 

He wonders if it might be cathartic to grab a knife from the kitchen drawer, to drag it over his skin until the red criss crosses it like beautiful ribbons. To press down harder over his wrists and watch his own heartbeat slow in flickering, faltering jets of crimson that would paint the walls, the ceiling, the couch. He wonders how long it would take someone to find him cold, hard and pale as marble. A testament to his own worthlessness.

 

He reaches unsteadily for the bottle closest to him, squints until he ascertains there's a few inches of amber anaesthetic swirling in the bottom. He tips it back, winces as it burns and closes his eyes. Maybe he can sleep for a while. Maybe, if he's lucky, he won't wake up. And if he does, there are six bottles of the stronger sedatives his doctor prescribed to help him sleep stashed in the kitchen cabinet, another bottle of liquor on the coffee table. There’ll be silence either way. Within minutes he slips into the merciful blackness of unconsciousness.

 

“Patrick? _Patrick?_ Come on, asshole, answer me…”

 

He stirs, groggy, wonders where the fuck he is and who's saying his name. It crashes down on him in seconds, the agony of it enough to take his breath away and he shifts against the couch, keeps his eyes pressed closed as though it'll drown out the voice. He can smell the sharp, bitter stench of vomit and gags a little on it. There's something else, some other stench, sour and unpleasant. He realises after a moment that it's him. 

 

“Oh thank _god,”_ the voice buzzes with relief. “Fuck, I thought you were dead.”

 

“Don't say shit like that, Bren.” A second voice. Softer. He can’t place it though he recognises it.

 

“What?” Yes, that’s definitely Brendon, he can't deal with Brendon right now. “Don't tell me you didn't think the same thing.”

 

“How...” Patrick croaks softly, his throat is agony, feels like he's been swallowing razor blades. 

 

“Should we call someone? Like, an ambulance or something?”

 

“Ryan, I swear to god you're _such_ a fucking mom.” So it's Ryan that's with Brendon. He should be embarrassed, he's only met him twice and he's supposed to be their producer yet here he is, sprawled on his couch, the stench of his own vomit heavy in the air.

 

“He's literally - _literally_ \- covered in puke and you don't think he needs medical attention?” Ryan hisses.

 

“How did you get in?” Patrick slurs, his tongue feels thick in his mouth. 

 

“Oh, hey buddy,” Brendon's expressive grin greets him as he forces his eyes open. “How’re you feeling?”

 

How is he feeling? Like his heart has been ripped from his chest and left him with nothing but an agonising hollow that aches and twists with the knowledge that it’s been a week - probably more - since she walked away and she hasn’t come back. No one has come back. He gives up and closes his eyes again. The concierge must have let them in. 

 

“He's passed out again,” Ryan points out dubiously. “I still think he needs a doctor.”

 

“He'll be _fine,”_ Brendon insists. “Help me get him cleaned up.”

 

“Seriously?” Ryan's voice is low and concerned. 

 

“Seriously,” Brendon sighs. “Come on, you get that side, I’ll get this side.”

 

“Where are we taking him, exactly?” Ryan snaps.

 

“Tub or shower?” Brendon asks.

 

“Tub? Fucking _tub?”_ Ryan sounds thoroughly incredulous. “Can _you_ lift him if he goes underwater?” 

 

“Okay, fine, shower. Here, help me get him undressed,” Brendon is messing with his socks, he kicks out at him irritably. “Quit fucking around, Patrick. Ry, get some scissors, we’re going to have to cut him out of that shirt or… Well…”

 

He’s too far gone to object as the boys strip him down to his shorts. Brendon is so gentle, skimming soft, reassuring hands wherever he touches as though asking for permission. 

 

“Has he… Pissed himself?” Ryan asks softly. “He smells pretty bad…”

 

“Just help me get him in the shower,” Brendon mutters. Patrick feels the two of them haul him forward on the couch, feels shoulders slip under each of his arms then he’s dragged up onto his feet. He lets them pull him around, doesn’t even object as Brendon drags down his shorts before shoving him into the shower. The warm water is soothing and neither Brendon nor Ryan seem to mind as he huddles onto the floor and sobs.

 

“Trick?” Brendon crouches down and reaches out to touch his shoulder. Water cascades over his arm and soaks his clothes with fine spray but he doesn't seem to care. Patrick inclines his head to show he's listening. “I'm gonna be right here, okay?”

 

“Okay,” Patrick whispers hoarsely, closing his eyes and tipping his face up to the spray. He's shivering hard although he's not sure he feels cold, his teeth chattering audibly as he huddles a little closer to the tiles. His stomach roils and vision blurs as he fights the urge to throw up once more. There’s nothing left to come up and the acid will burn like a bitch against his throat. “I-I don't… I really don't feel so good…”

 

“You're okay,” Brendon reassures him from his position on the closed toilet seat. He nods weakly, presses his cheek against the cold, wet tiles, feels it slick and smooth against his skin. He just needs to keep breathing, to concentrate on drawing air in through his nose and blowing it out slowly between his lips. Just like Martin taught him when they worked out together.

 

Fuck, Martin. Hayley. Martin and Hayley and the baby that isn't his but could have been. Martin and Pete and the gut twisting betrayal of watching his brother pound into his best friend. Martin. Fucking _Martin._

 

He slams his right fist into the tiles without even thinking about doing it, feels the thick, misshapen scabs on his knuckles crack, the freshly healing skin beneath splitting once more. There’s blood and pain but it's not as satisfying as the nursery in that nothing splinters gratifyingly under the sheer force of his rage but it’s still soothing, still calms the agonising, burning throb in his chest. Pain has always made things silent. So he pulls back his left hand and slams that into the shower screen and that _does_ give, the glass cracking slightly, blood spattering over it in interesting patterns that leech into the water already beading there and running, pink and pale, to swirl down the drain.

 

“Patrick,” Brendon's voice is anguished as he yanks back the shower screen and plunges, fully clothed, under the water. “Patrick fucking stop it, man!”

 

He grabs at Patrick's wrists, pins them as best he can and all Patrick can remember is tattooed hands around his, hauntingly familiar blue eyes and a soothing voice - _no one wants you_ … He fights against Brendon but he's too weak, doesn't have the strength to do much more than kick out pathetically a few times. Brendon is soaked, the water slicking his clothes to his skin as he holds Patrick close, rocks him gently and mutters endless streams of pointless words into his ear in a low, calm voice. 

 

Brendon's warm, Patrick realises, presses closer to absorb some of it, to steal just a little to try and thaw the cold ache in the centre of his chest. Brendon crushes him even tighter to his chest, drags him in as Patrick shakes and cries and wishes he was dead. He might even say it out loud a few times, feels Brendon tense each time as though Patrick is punching him in the stomach. Patrick doesn’t understand, doesn’t comprehend Brendon’s reaction, can’t do anything more than cling to him and whine every time Brendon tries to stand.

 

Brendon is slow and methodical, washing Patrick’s hair with the tenderness of a mother with her newborn - an analogy Patrick doesn’t want to draw - careful not to let soap run into his eyes as he rinses it. He washes him down, mutters a soft apology as he soaps between Patrick’s legs, his hands gentle, his voice contrite. Finally he gropes for Patrick’s toothbrush and presses it into his hand. Patrick realises dully that he’s too weak from the days of heavy drinking and not enough to eat to coordinate himself properly so Brendon takes over. He doesn’t think he’s ever been so humiliated in his life, slumped on the floor of his shower with his mouth open whilst a twenty-year-old he’s supposed to be mentoring cleans him up like a preschooler that’s pissed their pants.

 

Brendon leans back against the tiles and he goes with him, head pressed to Brendon’s chest, arms circling his narrow waist. He’s craved this, gentle contact and kind words and murmured reassurance. Eventually the water runs cold and Ryan peers around the door, concerned eyes focused everywhere but on Patrick.

 

“Bren?” He mutters. “I cleaned… _everything_. Spencer and Brent… They keep calling. They want to know where we are.”

 

“Just go,” Brendon murmurs, still stroking Patrick’s hair as he reaches up and shuts off the water. “Tell them… Tell them we all went out for dinner last night and Patrick and I got sick.”

 

“But…” Ryan trails off and Patrick knows he should tell Brendon to leave but he’s warm and kind and his fingers feel nice against Patrick’s scalp so he stays silent and hates himself a little more for his selfishness.

 

“Just go,” Brendon repeats firmly. “I’ll call you later.”

 

Ryan nods, slips away as subtly as he entered and the two remain, slumped into the shower tray in silence. Patrick is shivering so hard he can feel the vibrations travelling through Brendon. Brendon drags away from him after a time and Patrick cries out like it physically pains him, on some level it does, his chest tightening agonisingly until Brendon returns with a towel and wraps it around him.

 

“Patrick,” he begins softly, voice low and gentle. “You need to get out of the shower. You’re freezing. Can you stand by yourself?”

 

Patrick doesn’t reply as he hauls himself unsteadily to his feet, Brendon’s hands braced under his arms as he holds him steady. He lets Brendon lead him across the apartment, still wrapped in the towel. Little puddles trail Brendon and Patrick wants to tell him to get some dry clothes out of the dresser and put his wet things into the dryer but when he tries to speak nothing comes out. As they approach his bedroom, he baulks, remembers that he hasn’t been in here since… Since she left.

 

The closet door is still open, the empty hangers mocking him, reminding him that he’ll never be enough. That he’s _nothing._ He tugs back, staggers on weak legs that feel like they’re held up with rubber bands rather than bones.

 

“Patrick, come on you need-”

 

“No!” He gasps, shoving at Brendon, trying to scrabble away. The bed hasn’t been made, they’d laid amongst the tangled sheets not thirty minutes before Martin let himself in. The pillow is still dented from her head, another slung halfway down the bed that he’d slipped under her hips and they’d laughed at how undignified sex had become with her bump providing a constant obstacle… 

 

He needs to get out, he doesn’t know where or how, he just needs… There’s not enough oxygen in the room and he’s panicking, clawing at the towel around him, clawing at his face, his neck and chest until there’s skin and blood caught under his fingernails, until the pain kicks in and then a little more.

 

“Patrick, _please_ …”

 

He swings at Brendon sharply, catching him in the centre of his chest. Brendon grunts but absorbs the blow, manages somehow to get both arms around him and pin him still. Brendon isn’t warm anymore, he’s as chilled as Patrick and shivering wildly. Patrick can hear something, some wild, wounded animal screaming in agony somewhere in the apartment, realises dully that it’s _him._

 

“Patrick, come on man, just calm down,” Brendon knocks his legs out from under him and drags him to the floor, pins him still as he thrashes against him wildly. It hurts, everything is fucking agony, burning from the inside out although he’s still so cold. From this position he can see her pajama pants, forgotten and kicked under the bed and a fresh howl tears from his throat.

 

“It’s okay,” Brendon reassures him quietly, still restraining him, legs wrapped tight around Patrick’s waist, arms over his so he can’t move, can only press close to Brendon’s slim chest as he sobs and screams. “It’s an anxiety attack, you just need to breathe. Just breathe.”

 

He doesn’t know if it’s Brendon’s voice, the proximity of another body or that he’s just fucking exhausted but he calms eventually, the tears give way to hiccups and shuddering breaths against wet cotton and cool, damp skin and he can’t seem to help it as he mouths gently at Brendon’s neck. Brendon stiffens and tries to shove his mouth back but he persists, pushes his body up against Brendon’s, aching for physical contact.

 

“Please Bren,” he gasps desperately, grabbing fistfuls of Brendon’s shirt and dragging him close, burying his face in his neck, biting and sucking hard, leaving bruises and marks that perfectly match his lips. “I just… I _need_ you…”

 

“Patrick,” Brendon groans, hand briefly fisting in Patrick’s hair. Patrick whimpers and presses closer, grinds up against him. “You’re not… We shouldn’t… _I_ shouldn’t.”

 

“Want you to,” Patrick insists, managing to slip his hand between them so he can grasp Brendon’s cock through his wet jeans. He’s already hard and that’s good, that’s gratifying. Brendon _wants_ him, even if only physically, even if only right now. “Need you to fuck me.”

 

Brendon pulls back to stare at him for a moment. His lips are parted as he gasps, pupils blown and wet hair slicked to his head. He’s fucking beautiful and Patrick wants him, needs to feel him inside of him and have him stare down at him like he’s all that matters in that moment. It’s fleeting, Patrick knows that, as momentarily soothing as the whiskey he’s been drinking but if Brendon fucks him, maybe he’ll stay the night. Maybe Patrick won’t have to wake up alone. Just once. Tears are hot and wet on his face, his knuckles sting and throb and he’s shivering with cold and need as he waits for Brendon to speak.

 

“Get on the bed,” Brendon whispers.

 

“Not this one,” Patrick insists, he can’t bear the thought of smelling her on the sheets whilst Brendon fucks him, it makes him want to twitch away from himself. The guest room isn’t tainted, they could… but then it hits him like a baseball bat to the solar plexus, there _is_ no guest room. Just a smashed up nursery. No baby, no Hayley, just Patrick and splinters of a crib all tangled up with shreds of Winnie the Pooh. He remembers the burn of the belt around his neck, touches his throat lightly. If only. “The couch.”

 

Brendon nods and, cautiously, slowly, unwraps his arms and legs from around Patrick, pressing a soft kiss to his lips before murmuring softly, “Okay, the couch.”

 

The living room is pristine. Ryan has cleared away the bottles, opened the curtains and there’s a strong smell of cleaning products in the air. Patrick lets Brendon press him back onto the couch, lies and shivers with his hand wrapped around his already-hard cock. He watches Brendon peel off his soaked t-shirt and jeans, his dick springing free flushed blood-dark and leaking. Patrick whimpers softly.

 

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” Brendon murmurs and Patrick’s stomach cramps at the tenderness in his tone. “I know that’s what you’re gonna want me to do but I won’t. You… You deserve more than that, Patrick. I’m sorry they don’t see that.”

 

With that he moves to kneel between Patrick’s legs, bending his head and taking the pink length of Patrick’s prick into his mouth. He laps at the head, curling his fingers around the shaft and stroking slowly. Patrick’s eyes burn with tears once more, his fingers threading gently into Brendon’s hair. It’s not that it’s been so long since someone touched him but this feels like the first time in a long time since someone touched him without a proviso. He and Brendon have fooled around almost every time they’ve met up but this feels different, this feels like somewhere safe.

 

He urges Brendon up to his lips - fuck, they’re so soft, so impossibly soft - feels his fingers slide through his hair, gentle murmurings against his mouth that slip over Brendon’s lips and into Patrick’s, warm gasps of sweet reassurance that Patrick needs more than the oxygen they’re tangled up with. They kiss until Patrick relaxes, until he’s loose-limbed and soft in Brendon’s arms, until he’s pressed, warmed through and not shaking, to Brendon’s skinny frame.

 

He tests the soft skin of Brendon’s biceps with lazy fingertips, feels the tautness of rangey muscle underneath, tastes the skin in the hollow of his throat and realises he’s no longer hard. He’s just tired, so fucking tired, wants to sleep forever, just sink down into the couch cushions until it doesn’t hurt anymore. Brendon relaxes with him, fingertips dancing down Patrick’s sides, lips flushed and plump as they graze every inch of Patrick’s face and neck, breath stolen from one another’s lungs like high school kisses.

 

“I’m gonna grab you some pajamas,” Brendon whispers, slipping to his feet. “And I’m gonna order some pizza.”

 

Patrick nods and grips the couch, breathes deep to hold it together until Brendon gets back. It can’t be more than two minutes until he’s back, lithe body still gloriously uncovered, but to Patrick it feels like hours and he’s shivering and desperate as Brendon calls from the hallway.

 

“Where's your first aid kit?”

 

“Bathroom cabinet,” Patrick hears rummaging then footsteps as Brendon returns with clothes and a little green case. “What made you think I'd have one?”

 

“Lucky guess,” Brendon raises his eyebrows playfully. 

 

Patrick shrugs on the shirt and boxers he's handed. They're old and too tight. Not something he'd usually lounge around in but it was nice of Brendon to help so he stays quiet.

 

“You okay with me borrowing these?” He asks, already halfway into one of Patrick’s old shirts and a pair of boxers. Patrick just shrugs, leaning into Brendon as he collapses down onto the couch next to him. “I ordered some food.”

 

Patrick nods vaguely and wraps himself around Brendon once more, pulls his mouth down to his because if he’s kissing him he’s not thinking about her, not thinking about Pete. It’s just Brendon’s lips, Brendon’s hands and Brendon’s skin scented with Patrick’s from the cotton of his shirt.

 

“Why did you come here?” Patrick asks softly.

 

“We had that meeting,” Brendon shrugged. “When you didn’t show I got worried.”

 

The meeting. Firming up details for the album release and their first real tour. He was supposed to go along, just as an experienced observer, just to help smooth over any issues. He feels nauseous with guilt and shame once again.

 

“Fuck…” He mumbles, pushing back into the corner of the couch. “I… You shouldn’t have come looking. You should’ve gone. Fuck, fuck, _fuck,_ I’m so fucking sorry.”

 

“Dude? Seriously,” Brendon smiles, slow and easy and it’s like watching the sun rise over the lake, bright and warming. “It’s nothing. I’m just glad you’re okay. You want to talk about what happened?”

 

Brendon knows Hayley came back. Patrick told him in a hushed, awed whisper as she laid in the tub one night, felt giddy saying it out loud. Brendon was cautious, begged him not to let himself get hurt. Patrick was angry, reacted badly and hung up sharply then climbed into the tub with her and between them they’d managed to tip out enough water to cause a leak into the apartment below.

 

“No,” Patrick insists. Brendon nods and switches on the TV, finds something soothing as background noise and slings an arm around Patrick once more. In any other circumstance it might be nice, held safe and secure in someone’s arms, sprawled out in pajamas in front of the TV. It might feel homely. It might feel like security and I love you and lazy weekend mornings cooking breakfast together and collapsing back into bed. It might feel like all of the things Patrick knows aren’t for him.

 

He doesn't object when Brendon dresses his hands, doesn't wince as the antiseptic stings or when Brendon presses the dressings in place just a little too hard. He sits still and compliant as Brendon dabs at the scrapes and scratches on his face and neck, lets the sting and burn of it soothe him.

 

He wasn’t sure he was hungry until the pizza box is propped open on the coffee table and Brendon is cramming a slice into his mouth like it’s the last meal he’ll ever see. He reaches for a slice, nibbles it slowly as they both stare vacantly at the TV. As he finishes the crust, he reaches across and slides his hand into Brendon’s boxers, barely able to meet his gaze. He doesn’t know what he’s doing or why he’s doing it, just knows that sometimes getting off makes people stay. He really wants him to stay. Brendon quirks an eyebrow at him questioningly but his cock twitches, starts to lengthen and thicken under Patrick’s palm.

 

He reaches across and grasps Brendon’s hand, guiding it down to replace his own against the length of his dick. Brendon pauses, confused, eyes searching Patrick’s face.

 

“I just… Want to watch,” Patrick confesses hoarsely. Now he’s sobering up, he’s not sure he can bear for anyone to touch him, he doesn’t think he can deal with the emotions he knows it’ll stir. But he can deal with watching. Brendon nods and starts to stroke slowly, the fingers of his free hand slipping into the hair at the nape of Patrick’s neck, pulling him close and grazing their lips together softly. Patrick doesn’t resist as Brendon presses his head down slightly, just an inch or two, still stroking himself as he murmurs gently.

 

“Spit.”

 

Patrick nods, dragging saliva forward onto his tongue, pursing his lips and letting it drop down onto the head of Brendon’s cock. Brendon groans, eyes falling closed and head tipping back against the couch, hand working harder and faster. Patrick is enraptured, eyes fixed on Brendon’s cock, shining in the light of the TV, even as Brendon kisses him deep and hard. He shudders as Brendon’s mouth grazes his ear.

 

“You too… Come on…” Brendon groans. Patrick gropes for his cock, shoving the front of his boxers down and circling his length. He shifts on the couch until they’re almost facing one another, knees touching lightly, the only sounds in the room their rough, laboured breathing and the slick of skin against skin.

 

He finds himself matching Brendon’s pace, watching Brendon’s cock flush dark with blood, watching a thin line of pre-come slip over the head. He’s certain Brendon’s close, can see it in each twitch of his cock, in the way he’s biting down hard on his lower lip, the way his shoulders hitch with each shuddering breath. He leans in and Brendon meets him halfway, tongues meeting before lips, sloppy and dirty as they grab at one another’s hair with clumsy, awkward left hands. Brendon is shaking, taut and tense and Patrick drags back to watch him come.

 

Brendon’s hips arch and his thighs tense as he leans back against the couch, jerking himself hard and fast as he shoots across both of their laps. Patrick whimpers softly as each spurt falls a little shorter until Brendon is smoothing out the last few drops that slide, thick and white, over the head of his cock and down over his fingers.

 

Patrick follows him quickly, Brendon’s dark gaze heavy on him as he feels the mess pulsing over his hand, pressing his fingers through it, groaning low in his chest as the tension leaves him and he can relax back, sticky and sated, against the cushions.

 

Brendon kisses him softly but doesn’t close the distance between their bodies, The TV is still playing King of Queens in the background. They change their boxers and slump back down onto the couch together, Brendon’s feet kicked up on his lap and, after a while, Brendon speaks softly.

 

“I’m not going to pretend I know what’s happened,” he begins softly. “But I think I can probably guess.”

 

“Don’t, Bren,” Patrick mutters, tracing his thumb against the outline of Brendon’s boney ankle. 

 

“I’m just saying,” Brendon shrugs. “They fuck you up, man. You need to do… I don’t know… _Something._ You need to break this shitty fucking cycle of them picking you up and tossing you down when they’re done.”

 

“Please,” Patrick holds a hand up, tries to physically ward off Brendon’s words that cut him more deeply than any blade could, that bite into his skin harder than the belt around his throat.

 

“I’m just saying, as your friend,” Patrick’s head snaps up. No one’s ever called themselves his “friend” quite so casually and easily before. Pete would say it but it was tangled up with so much more, with words neither could say and emotions neither could bring themselves to acknowledge. It was barbed with _“mustn’t”_ and _“can’t”_ and _“don’t”_. Martin would say it sometimes but he was family, he was… He was Martin. Brendon just rolled it off his tongue, like it was a given, like Patrick shouldn’t doubt it or treat it as something fragile and delicate. “You deserve better than this. Better than him or her.”

 

“What if I'm not supposed to have anything better?” He asks quietly. Brendon winces slightly and seems to fall into thoughtful reverie.

 

Patrick's almost forgotten what they were talking about when Brendon leans in and rests his head against Patrick's shoulder with a yawn, his voice thick with sleep as it breaks the silence like gunfire, “You'll find it. Better. You know?”

 

Patrick isn't sure he does know. But he rests his head on top of Brendon's, laces their fingers together against the younger man’s thigh and closes his eyes. Existence doesn't seem quite so painful and sleep comes quick and easy, even without the assistance of half a bottle of whiskey and a handful of pills.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, and I know I say this every week, but thank you _so_ much for taking the time out of your day to read my work. I love hearing what you think so please don't be shy about commenting or talking to me directly on tumblr - sn1tchesandtalkers - or just hitting that kudos button! And if you don't want to do any of those things that's fine too, just have a wonderful day and remember - it's almost the weekend!


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Duality**  
>  djuːˈalɪti/  
>  _noun_  
>  noun duality  
> an instance of opposition or contrast between two concepts or two aspects of something; a dualism.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Lordy what a week! A couple of things, first and most importantly _look at the absolutely incredible artwork Das_verlorene_Kind has created!_ I'm absolutely blown away by how she's captured the twins and _insist_ you all go to her blog at http://das-verlorene-kind.tumblr.com/ _immediately if not sooner_ to check out her other stuff.
> 
> Secondly, it's a long chapter this week but I hope you'll agree it's worth your time, this is possibly my favourite chapter so far because just... Oh my goodness! I want to tell you all about it but really, I should probably just shut up and let you _read_ it, shouldn't I? Are we sitting comfortably? Snacks? Drinks? Then let's begin...

It was 4:32pm on Friday April 27th 1984 when Martin Stumph took his first screaming breath. Born a bundle of red-faced fury, by 4:39pm he was an older brother, followed into the world by placid, content, plump-cheeked Patrick who behaved - as the doctor observed with a laugh - like all newborns should.

By six months old, their mother no longer needed to dab blood-red nail polish onto Martin’s left big toe to tell them apart. Patrick was always smiling, happy to lay on the rug in the living room and suck his toes, to babble endless stories into his brother’s ear. Martin was fractious, rarely smiled, only seemed to relax if he could curl his fat little fist around his brother’s arm or snag his tiny fingers in a handful of Patrick's romper suit. He refused to sleep unless his brother was next to him in his crib and crooning softly into his ear, Patrick's crib unused and empty at the other side of their nursery.

At three, Martin resisted the move into separate rooms in what had become his typical fashion. He planted his little feet square apart, wrapped his chubby arms around Patrick's waist and buried his face in his back, declaring vehemently, “No. Not gonna. Wanna stay with Trick.”

Patrick stared at his mother with wide blue eyes, chewed anxiously on his fist as she appraised them both with a sigh. She called their father back upstairs and had him move Martin’s bed back into the room, muttered something about them growing out of it.

They didn't.

By five, Patrick was used to his brother’s particular brand of sharing, would line up his Christmas and birthday gifts in their bedroom and wait patiently as Martin decided which order they should be played with. Their mom drew the line at actually letting Martin open them, though Patrick would have allowed him if he asked.

“He’s so… _Still._ He just… _doesn't move_ ,” Patrick heard their mother observe to their aunt when he was eight years old. “Martin, you know? The others… They read or watch TV when they’re not playing but he… He just watches Patrick.”

Three days after their tenth birthday Patrick followed his brother into the backyard, trailed behind him with unease swirling hot and painful in his gut as Martin dropped the pile of cardboard sleeves he carried onto the floor. He extracted the first perfect black disc of ridged vinyl with it’s burst of bright jade green at the centre and spun it hard - as hard as he could - against the side of the house. It shattered, burst like shrapnel into dozens of tiny pieces. 

Patrick cradled the sleeve of the record to his chest as though he could fix it from sheer force of will and stared at Martin in horror. Martin didn’t glance at him just moved on to the next and the next and the next until all that was left of their father’s record collection was a pile of shattered plastic and a series of chips and gouges in the wall. Patrick didn’t understand, couldn’t comprehend why Martin would do such a thing. Their dad had just started to let him handle them, to let him remove them from their sleeves with reverence and place them gently onto the turntable, to bring the needle down carefully and listen, cross-legged at his dad’s feet, full of wonder on the living room floor.

“Martin! Patrick!” Hours later Patrick felt his stomach lurch, bile clawing up and into his throat as their dad shouted from downstairs. He could picture him, red-faced and angry, braced over the bannister. “Get down here _now!”_

They were dragged by their collars to the backyard, pulled to face the broken records and Patrick burned with humiliation, with the knowledge that he hadn’t tried to stop him. And when his dad asked - voice taut and hissed through clenched teeth, a song of undisguised fury - which of them had done such a thing, it seemed only natural to acquiesce when Martin pointed to him. Because _of course_ it was Patrick’s fault. He didn’t try to stop him. He may as well have thrown them himself. He took the spanking, the grounding, the loss of his bike for a month and access to the TV for two because he deserved it. It was his fault. 

Martin just smiled quietly to himself.

Thirteen and home from school sick, left to the tender care of their home-from-college older brother they laid together under Martin’s sheets. Kevin clearly had no intention of leaving his bed so neither did they, curled together quietly.

Sarah Bremmer liked him, Patrick knew this because she left a note in his locker that made him flush pink every time he looked at it. Martin seethed furiously the whole way home on the bus and Patrick didn't know why, didn't understand when he insisted they tell mom they were sick the next day. But he did, croaking and wheezing convincingly. 

There in their dim bedroom, their brother sleeping in the room next door, Martin hissed like bitter venom that Patrick wasn't allowed to leave him for some girl, that he’d kill him, he’d hurt himself, he’d… he’d… he’d... Patrick rushed to reassure him that _of course_ he wouldn't leave him but Martin refused to be placated. He was rage and fury and snarled threats through clenched teeth. He was hands that raked at Patrick painfully, possessive claws that slid under his shirt and gripped into his back, fingers that tangled in his hair like knives and somehow, he didn’t quite remember the details, lips were pressed to his.

He kissed back, sloppy with inexperience, mind a thrumming black mess at what they were doing - _what the fuck were they doing?_ But Martin was calmed, soft against him, the anger sliding away with lips and tongues and hands and when he'd murmured softly into Patrick's ear _“was that your first kiss?”_ he'd seemed oddly victorious to hear that it was.

As the walls climbed around them, soaring barricades constructed entirely of Martin's dark jealousy and possessiveness, impenetrable towers wound thick with briars and thorns and dominance and need, Patrick tried not to notice their dad withdrawing from them. He tried to ignore the muttering and frowns when he noted that yet again one bed hadn't been slept in. He tried to make himself everything he thought his dad would love with guitars and drums and ridiculous impressions of all the artists his dad loved best. Martin would sneer at him, ask him why the fuck he cared what the old man thought. Patrick would just shrug.

He blamed himself for the divorce.

He would often catch their mom looking at them with an expression that, as a young teen, he didn’t understand, a distant frown that made his throat ache like breathing in January air. It was despair, he realised as he grew up, an expression that suggested she didn’t understand them, couldn’t comprehend their secret little realm. Devastated by the knowledge that he’d disappointed both parents, Patrick allowed himself to be dragged further into Martin’s world.

At fifteen, Martin climbed into his bed late one night, cock straining his pajama pants as he groped to get his lips against Patrick's. There were rushed reassurances as his hand slipped into Patrick’s shorts, murmured platitudes that it was okay, they were supposed to be the same person, it was just like jerking off. Patrick didn’t know how it happened but it did and he was, once again, left feeling dirty, unable to look anyone in the eye the next day, convinced they must be able to tell he’d jerked his brother off, let Martin do the same to him, just by looking at his face, flushed red every time he thought about it.

But dating - oh, _dating_ \- that proved to be the hardest obstacle for the twins to overcome. Martin was overt in his jealousy, would refuse to talk to Patrick before he went out with a girl or a guy, would lie on his bed, back turned to Patrick and refuse to speak, refuse to look at him. When he returned, Martin would feign sleep and Patrick would stare at the ceiling and ache for his brother’s presence in his bed. If Martin had a date it would be different, Patrick would be subjected to hours of descriptive aural pornography on his return, every blowjob, every fuck in the back of their car recounted in explicit detail until Patrick’s stomach - and his cock - ached with it.

But they found a way - their way - to deal with it.

* * *

Patrick rests his chin lightly against the steering wheel as he stares across the street at Martin and Hayley’s house. He has no idea what he’s doing here other than she called him and he doesn’t think he knows how to say no to her. It’s not that he doesn’t realise it’s a fucking horrible idea but she was crying and the baby was crying and Martin was yelling in the background. He couldn’t _not_ come.

He pulls the car up onto the drive and climbs out cautiously. He hasn’t seen her since she left his apartment, hasn’t met his niece even though she’s already four months old. They named her Audrey, at least that’s what Martin told him, smirking at him from across their rehearsal space. It’s too painful, too agonisingly raw. 

But Hayley was crying.

He takes a deep, steadying breath as he climbs out of the driver’s seat, limbs leaden and every instinct of self preservation that he possesses screaming at him to get back into the car and fucking leave. This is _their_ mess. He didn’t ask them to bring a baby into their fucking train wreck, he didn’t ask them to freeze him out, he didn’t ask for any of it but he can’t seem to leave the scab alone, can’t seem to stop himself ripping off the bandage and poking at it until it’s raw. 

As he gets to the door and twists the handle he remembers the last time he was here, how they’d been waiting for him in the bedroom willing and eager to undress him and pull him onto the sheets with them. How they’d announced their plans for a family after they’d fucked him.

He shivers, forces down the bile that tries to choke him and shoves open the door. At which point, all fucking hell breaks loose.

* * *

Patrick became aware of a hand curling into his boxers, soft and warm, wrapped around his cock in gentle invitation. The twin bed was too small for twin sixteen year olds, comically so, they were a mass of elbows and skinny knees and angular hipbones and the only real way to stay on the mattress together was for Patrick to tuck himself, small and tightly coiled, half under his brother's frame.

“Date go well?” He asked softly into the warm skin of Martin's throat.

“Mmm,” Martin murmured. “Let me show you…”

Patrick relaxed, jealousy abated slightly, as Martin's mouth began it's leisurely exploration of his, as a sweat-slick palm stroked against the hard length of his prick. And if it was fucked up that this was how they spent their nights when one or the other had been hidden in the back row of the movies with a girl or pressed up in the backseat of their car with a guy then he supposed he didn't really care.

When Martin slipped down and took Patrick's cock into his mouth with a muttered _“fucking look at me, you don't get to pretend I'm someone else,”_ he couldn’t find the way to articulate that he didn’t _want_ it to be someone else. Martin was familiar. Martin was warm and safe and _home_ in so many ways he couldn’t count them. Martin reminded him of his limitations, was always the first to point out when a girlfriend started to look at someone else, the first one to tell him that the band he was playing in sucked.

He stared down at the face so like his own, a jolt of realisation shuddered through him like turbulence - that’s what he looked like, _exactly_ what he looked like, when he sucked Martin’s cock. He rubbed his thumb lightly over the arch of Martin’s cheekbone and groaned out his orgasm into the back of his brother's throat.

 _“Mine,”_ Martin whispered possessively as Patrick returned the favour, jealousy burning his words - burning Patrick - even though he’d been the one getting a sloppy blowjob in the car they shared two blocks down from the house. He swallowed Martin’s come, felt the heavy heat of his brother’s cock against his lips and tongue, traced the delicate line of his hipbone with the pad of his thumb, sharp under his pale skin.

“Yours,” he agreed as he sucked a mark to Martin’s creamy pale inner thigh.

* * *

“Your fucking _girlfriend,_ ” Martin snarls as he staggers from the kitchen, pupils blown black and liquor so strong on his breath Patrick can smell him from the other end of the hallway. “Is a fucking _psycho._ ”

Patrick closes the door softly behind him and takes a deep breath. 

“She’s not my girlfriend,” he growls and somehow his voice doesn’t shake though his hands do. “She hasn’t been my girlfriend for eight years. She’s your _wife_ and the mother of your _daughter_ so man the fuck up and deal with your fucking responsibilities.”

The conviction in his words pulls Martin up short momentarily, has him staring at Patrick through reddened eyes. His lips curl into a sneer as he supports himself briefly against the wall, looking down at the floor with a hard, brittle bark of a laugh. When he looks up there’s anger and bitterness etched across each line of his face. He looks ten years older than he did just a few short months ago.

“She won’t stop fucking screaming,” Patrick’s not sure at this point if Martin is talking about Hayley or the baby but he can’t hear either right now so just leans against the wall, guarded, and waits for Martin to continue. Which he does, punctuating his words with a fist slammed into the wall, the plaster and paint cracking under the force of it. “I’ve fucking _had it,_ dude.”

“You don’t get to have _fucking had it,_ you piece of shit,” he snarls at his brother. “You had your chance to have _fucking had it_ four fucking months ago.”

They stand and glare at one another across the hallway. Patrick buzzes with fury, can feel it in the tips of his fingers like pins and needles, can feel it itching at the back of his throat, sliding under his skin. He clenches and unclenches his fingers into tight fists behind his back and tries to resist the urge to drive one directly into the centre of his brother’s face.

* * *

“TJ quit the band,” he told Martin as they laid, curled around one another in Patrick’s bed. Martin nodded, chin hooked over his shoulder, arm slung across his waist. He could feel the heat of his brother’s cock against his thigh, the hard, uncomfortable press of it. Martin ignored it, so he did the same. “Mike says he’s gonna do the same.”

“So that’s it?” Martin’s voice was blank but Patrick wasn’t stupid. He knew he was pleased. The downside of following him into drumming lessons had been he couldn’t follow him into bands. Drumming was sort of a solo gig. He enjoyed it, knew he shouldn’t, but it was nice to just be _Patrick_ for a while.

“Not exactly,” he avoided Martin’s eyes, reached for his cock as a distraction. “They want me to carry on singing. And try playing guitar. Pete thinks… He says I have an okay voice..”

“You’re a shitty guitarist.” The words rolled off Martin’s tongue as easily as his tongue rolled against Patrick’s throat. He shivered.

“Maybe,” he shrugged. Martin was probably right. He wasn’t a great guitarist. “But Pete thinks-”

“Pete’s an asshole,” Martin opined as his tongue meandered down over Patrick’s collarbone, as his fingers slid around his dick. _He_ didn’t think Pete was an asshole. He thought he was… Kind of cute. Pete was nice to him, didn’t treat him like an idiotic kid. And Pete loved his voice. Told him so all the time. He thought he might have a crush on Pete.

“We need a drummer,” he groaned the last word as Martin dragged a fingertip over the tight pucker of his hole. Martin stopped, chin dug into Patrick’s chest somehow both blunt and sharp at the same time as he looked up at him, face carefully neutral. He wasn’t sure it was the best idea but he’d told the guys his brother could drum and they were eager to try him out. He was terrified they’d like Martin more, terrified he’d lose the one thing that defined him outside of being Martin’s brother. “I told them you’d… I thought you might want to audition?”

“Yeah?” Martin chewed his lip thoughtfully, palmed slowly at Patrick’s prick, wrapped a hand around both of their shafts and rubbed them together. Patrick whimpered. “Yeah. I guess I could.”

* * *

“Patrick,” Hayley emerges from the living room, edges subtly between the two of them. She looks tired, face drawn. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have called.”

“But you _did_ ,” anger boils in his chest and he digs his fingernails into his palms to try to control it, to try to keep it in check. “You did because it’s what you _always_ do. It’s what you _both_ do.”

“And here you are,” Martin smirks, sarcasm dripping from his lips like poisoned barbs. “But where else are you gonna go?”

“Shut the fuck up, Martin,” he mutters softly as pain blooms in his chest and threatens to choke him, to coil around his lungs and throat until he’s on his knees and gasping.

“Pathetic little Patrick,” Martin singsongs with a snarl of a laugh. “Sniffing around the _second_ he thinks he might get to fuck his brother’s wife.”

“Shut the fuck _up,_ Martin,” he repeats and takes three steps towards him, fists clenched.

* * *

“Dude,” Joe muttered softly, voice low so that Martin couldn’t hear him from the kitchen. “He’s really fucking _good.”_

“Patrick’s better,” Pete cut in loyally, touching Patrick with reassuring hand that burnt into his shoulder.

“No he’s not,” Joe snapped. “And anyway, we can’t strap the drums to his fucking _ass_ , can we?” 

“Patrick?” Pete asked softly, dark eyes troubled. “What do you think? You want to let him in?”

Patrick did but he didn’t. He loved his brother, adored him, _worshipped_ him but they were private. They were under covers in quiet rooms, hidden touches, unwatched kisses. They were _them_ whereas with Pete and Joe and music he’d just been _him._ His palms were sweaty as Joe and Pete stared at him and he swiped them off on his jeans, mouth dry as he glanced at Martin, sat at the kitchen table with a can of soda cradled in his hands, staring at the tabletop.

“Yeah,” he nodded weakly and hated how the word came out as a squeak. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Yeah. I think we should give him a shot.”

“Hey Martin, good news,” Joe bounded into the kitchen without a backward glance. “You kick your brother’s _ass_ on the drums…”

“You’re sure?” Pete squeezed his shoulder again. Patrick just nodded. What choice did he have?

* * *

Martin is smirking, brightly, arrogantly beautiful as he rallies and squares his broad shoulders, flexes his fingers like he does right before he steps on stage. The pull is still there, still lurches like a tight, hard knot in Patrick’s stomach each and every time he looks at his brother, like they’re tangled by umbilical cords that were never cut.

“You’re a fucking asshole,” he mutters, feels a flush of impotent rage creeping up his neck and spreading across his cheeks, marring his skin with bright, helpless heat.

“And you’re fucking pathetic,” Martin counters.

“Would the two of you _please_ stop this?” Hayley begs. “You’re brothers, you can’t-”

“Shut the fuck up,” Martin snarls at her viciously, hand raised. For a second Patrick thinks he might hit her, takes a hurried step forward as she flinches back with an instinct that's clearly come from experience. His brother pauses, lowers his hand and his shoulders with a sneer. “Oh, you think you could _stop_ me? Come on then, ride to her fucking rescue, put me in my fucking place, cocksucker.”

“Patrick please just leave,” Hayley begs. “I don’t want you to get hurt. Either of you.”

Martin snorts derisively and Patrick feels his fists clench, bitter fury clawing at him, burning him. Brendon was right, the kid was _so_ fucking right. Martin has loomed at each and every turn, destroyed everything, turned anything golden into something broken and sour, what would his life be without Martin. It’s not a concept he’s considered before, always presuming he needs him to stay whole, his other - _better?_ \- half.

* * *

“Pete’s hot for you,” Martin stated it softly. Patrick laid on his stomach on Martin’s bed, his brother propped on an elbow next to him as his warm, rough hand skimmed over his back. “That’s why he wants to share a room with you on the tour.”

“Pete?” He repeated stupidly. _Pete?_ Handsome, charming Pete with his devilish grin and caramel eyes? People like Pete weren’t hot for people like Patrick. Martin maybe, the best version of him, the charming one, the handsome one. But not Patrick. “I don’t think so…”

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Martin’s lips brushed, soft and teasing, the length of his neck, paused at his ear, his breath hot and damp. “He wants to fuck you.”

“No,” he shook his head into the pillow, didn’t object as Martin pulled down his boxers. “He doesn’t.”

“Hmm,” was all Martin muttered, calloused fingers danced down the valley of his spine, over the curve of his ass cheek and dipped between. Patrick lazily spread his legs, groaned softly as Martin reached up and slid his fingers between Patrick’s lips. He sucked obediently, worked as much saliva up in his mouth as he could to coat Martin’s fingers, felt a little trail down his chin as he withdrew them and pressed them once again to the tight muscle hidden between his cheeks.

“We shouldn’t....” He groaned as Martin’s slipped two fingers inside of him, just to the first knuckle, testing and probing, stretching and teasing.

“You always say that,” Martin pointed out as he worked his fingers in deeper. Patrick moaned and wriggled back a little. Just like jerking off, but better. “I don’t want you to fuck him. Don’t want him to fuck you either, before you think it.”

“You never want me to fuck _anyone,”_ his fingers twisted into the sheets as Martin found that spot, that perfect little thrum deep inside of him that made his legs twitch and his stomach cramp pleasantly. “Oh _shit_ …”

“I’d be okay with _me_ fucking you.”

“Yeah?” He thought about that for a moment - though it was oh so difficult to think clearly with Martin’s fingers pressed inside of him - and decided it wasn’t the worst idea he’d ever heard.

“Yeah,” Martin mouthed gently at his neck and his eyes rolled back. “I mean… Have you ever… You haven’t fucked anyone, right?”

“No,” he gritted through clenched teeth. He heard the noise of the bedside drawer opening, heard the sound of the bottle of lube being uncapped, felt the cold, slippery slick of it against his sensitive places. Martin’s fingers twisted in even deeper. “ _Fuck_ …”

“Roll over,” Martin’s voice was low and controlled and when he obeyed there was fire in his eyes as he grasped at Patrick’s hip, kneaded the flesh until he yelped, uncomfortable. Martin knelt between his thighs, another coat of lube applied sloppily to his cock, Patrick’s legs urged up and over his shoulders and he glanced down, jaw clenched.

“I’m gonna do it.” Martin whispered, voice tight, as though daring him to object. Patrick felt the blunt head of his brother’s cock against his hole, nodded sharply and bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, felt flesh crunch under his teeth and a warm swell of blood on his tongue. “I’m gonna fuck you.”

Patrick would have been lying if he said it didn’t hurt, it hurt like nothing he’d ever felt before. Pressure and stretching and agonising _fullness_. He reached up, braced a hand against Martin’s chest, nails bitten into the pale skin as he hummed, low and constant until Martin bottomed out, his hips flush against Patrick's ass.

“You need me to go slow?” Martin asked softly, fingers cupped under Patrick’s chin, eyes that burned bright with lust and want and dark, desperate desire.

“Mmm,” was all Patrick could manage, eyes watering, lip bitten hard. So Martin did, slow and shallow, hand curled around the flushed pillar of Patrick’s prick, strokes timed to match his thrusts and all he could think was _why_? Why the fuck would anyone do this for _fun?_ But then Martin’s cock found that hidden spot inside, fluttered teasingly against it on each thrust, his hand worked perfectly in tandem against Patrick’s cock and in minutes he cried out as his come pulsed, hot and wet and messy, over Martin’s fist, slid between his fingers and down over the length of his cock. Whispered noise spilled from his lips like bitter secrets. “Oh fuck… Oh… Oh god… _Fuck_ …”

“Good?” Martin murmured as he drew close himself, as his hips stuttered against Patrick and his fingernails bit into the soft skin above his hipbones. Patrick tried to twist away, the feeling of Martin sliding against him too much after his orgasm, tried to pry the fingers from around his sensitive cock. “Mmm, Trick... Fuck, _Trick_ …”

Two or three hard shoves of his hips and Martin tipped over, Patrick’s legs dropped to circle his waist as he fell forward against his chest, ear pressed above his heart, breathing rough and ragged. The sheets felt itchy against Patrick’s sweaty back, Martin’s hair tickled his chin. He groped a hand up Martin’s hot, damp back, buried his fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck and pulled him up for a deep, searching kiss.

“You’re mine,” Martin whispered against his lips. Always whispers, always secrets, always hidden. “Fuck Pete. No. _Don’t_ fuck Pete. _Never_ fuck Pete. Just fuck me.”

Patrick pressed his thumb gently into the notch where Martin’s spine met his skull, let his fingers extend across the hollow of his brother’s throat, “Just you. I can… We can switch the rooms, you know? Pete can share with Joe.”

“Yeah?” Martin nodded slowly. “Yeah. We should do that.”

* * *

“Please,” Hayley stays between them, one hand on Martin’s chest as he mirrors Patrick’s steps. “Please just stop. Patrick just.. Just go. I’m sorry.”

They’ve never had a fist fight. Oh, they’ve pushed and shoved one another, threatened and screamed. But fists have never been involved. Patrick takes another deliberate step forward, heart and breath racing, tangling over one another, threatening to suffocate him.

“You’re such a fuck up,” he snarls. “You don’t deserve anything you have.”

“And you’re fucking pathetic,” Martin sneers. “Where’s _your_ family, Patrick? You hang around me, you hang around that fucking kid, you hang around Pete. But no one _wants_ you.”

“No one’s _allowed_ me!” Patrick explodes. “You… You won’t _let_ them!”

* * *

“Pete sucked my dick tonight,” he blurted it out into the darkness. He wasn’t sure if Martin was asleep but he throbbed with the need to tell someone, to say it out loud, to make it real and solid and tangible. The hitch of Martin’s chest told him that he was absolutely still awake.

“Yeah?” Martin muttered, voice burning with jealousy. “Did you like it?”

“I _think_ so,” Patrick tingled at the memory, at the details he wouldn't share with Martin, the singing and the intensity in Pete’s eyes. And if Pete had knocked him back a little afterward then Patrick didn't intend to hold it against him. He would wait for Pete to be cool with the whole thing. “Yeah… I think I did.”

“Was he better than me?” Patrick felt Martin shift. The bed was a double and that was a luxury, the bed frame didn't dig into his ass and his knees didn't hang out into the cold air but they still curled close together out of habit. Martin crawled from under him and moved to straddle him, his thighs framing Patrick’s, his hands braced either side of Patrick’s head. Patrick could barely see him in the gloom but he could feel hot puffs of breath against his lips, could feel the press of his hardening cock against his own. “Well? Was he?”

“No,” Patrick answered honestly as he touched Martin’s cheek with the tips of his fingers. It was smooth, like his own, not rough like Pete’s. “It was kind of sloppy. Like, I don't think he's really done it much? Nice though.”

“You love him.” It wasn’t a question so Patrick stayed quiet, played a hand through Martin’s hair. “More than you love me?”

“We’re different,” Patrick pointed out quietly, slipped out from underneath his brother’s body and rolled onto his stomach, spread his legs in invitation. “We’re… Us. But we’re brothers. You know we can’t be anything else.”

Martin was silent as he moved between Patrick’s legs. He felt him spread apart his cheeks with strong hands, felt the wet slick of his tongue against the tight pucker of his ass, felt him working in spit slicked fingers as his tongue worked around them. He whined softly - he fucking _loved_ getting rimmed by Martin. He thrust his hips against the comforter, humped against it desperately as Martin gently pulled him open with his thumbs, pressed in his tongue with obscene, wet noises that sent blood surging straight to his cock.

When it stopped, those soft lips removed and the bed shifting as Martin crawled on his knees to the pillows, to Patrick, he turned his head in readiness, leaned into Martin’s touch as he cupped his cheek and pressed his cock to his lips, “Get it wet.”

Patrick did, a sloppy, spit-soaked blowjob, drool slipped past his lips as he got Martin’s cock good and slick, tasted the salty bitterness that seeped from the head, “Good. That’s good.”

He stayed on his front as Martin moved back between his thighs, the jut of his hipbones sharp against the heavy softness of Patrick’s thighs. He wriggled up onto his knees but kept his head down on his folded arms, cried out into the pillow as Martin thrust into him, hard and deep.

“You belong to _me_ ,” Martin whispered, voice cracking at the edges. “You’re _mine_. My little brother.”

“Dude, not while you’re fucking me, kay?” Patrick tried to laugh but the sound died on his lips as Martin slammed in even harder.

“Pete doesn’t get _this_ ,” Martin continued as his hand groped for Patrick’s cock. “Pete doesn’t get _you_. If you… If you leave me for him I’ll… But you _won’t_. Will you? Because you’re _mine_.”

The spit was drying and Martin - like Patrick - had a big dick. Patrick whimpered and wrapped his hand over Martin’s on his cock, moved his hand harder and faster. Martin took this as invitation to speed his hips, fucking Patrick deep and hard as the bed creaked with the strain.

“Tell me he doesn’t get this,” Martin insisted, nails gripped into Patrick’s ass.

“He doesn’t,” Patrick’s voice was barely a whisper. “Just you. I already told you. _Just you_.”

When Martin came, hot and hard, the flood of it burning Patrick from the inside, he kept going, kept thrusting into Patrick with his softening cock as he twisted his wrist, worked Patrick’s dick until he came in thick, hot spurts all over the comforter. Martin's teeth latched onto the back of his neck hard enough to leave crescent shaped bruises that - when he twisted the right way in the mirror - reminded him of the inlays on the neck of his guitar.

“If he sucks your dick again,” Martin whispered, voice thick with sleep and menace as they curled together on the damp, musky smelling sheets. “I’ll break his fucking jaw. You’re _mine_.”

“Yours.”

* * *

“Martin, get back in the living room,” Hayley pleads desperately, reaching for his hand. He shrugs her off roughly and then there’s nothing between him and Patrick but twenty feet of solid wood floor. “Don’t do this. Patrick _please,_ just go!”

“I have an idea,” Martin smiles cruelly. “You want a kid, right? You were pathetic enough to want to take the little fucker on before. Why don’t you move in? You do the dad stuff and I can get on with my fucking life without this miserable bitch complaining all the fucking time.”

Patrick sucks in a hard breath, thinks he might hear Hayley doing the same. He’s pointlessly, needlessly aware of sweat prickling his back and between his legs, isn’t sure if it’s nervousness or pure, raging fury. Adrenaline pools his his gut and makes his fingers twitch against his sides.

“Martin _please_ go in the living room,” Hayley is back between them in an instant but they’ve already closed the gap once more, no more than ten feet between them now, three or four easy paces, if that. “Patrick, go. Fucking _go!_ ”

“You’re disgusting,” Patrick spits at his brother in fury, he can feel his face heating, his heart pounding like a fucking kick drum in his chest, hard enough that he thinks his ribs might crack from the force of it.

“No,” Martin shakes his head as he smiles slowly. “I’m you. I’m _you_ but… _Better_.”

* * *

Patrick hurried back to the bus, the asphalt hot under his feet even through the soles of his sneakers. They’d played another show, another date where he pretended he couldn’t hear the boos when they played their Folie stuff. But Hayley was there for a few days and he wanted to make the most of it, to take her out for something to eat at the crappy diner they’d passed on the way in. To drink milkshakes and talk shit with her for an hour or so.

She wasn’t in the lounge area of the bus but he could hear voices at the back, in the bedroom, strode down and slid the door back, “Hey, I was just thinking we could-”

Weirdly, the first thing Patrick noticed was that Martin was wearing his hoodie. The white one with the zombie graphic on the front. The one Martin told him was childish and made him look like an overgrown seven year old. It took him a second or two longer to realise that Martin was laid back on the bed, Patrick’s jeans around his knees, Patrick’s brightly coloured sneakers on his feet, Patrick’s camo print trucker hat jammed over his hair and low on his sweat-slicked brow. And Hayley riding his dick. Patrick gaped, disbelieving for just a moment, the door caught tight in his hand as he stared at them.

Hayley squealed and made to jump off his brother, but Martin held her steady, hands on her hips as he snapped at Patrick, “ _Martin!_ Get the fuck out, man!”

No one could imitate Patrick’s voice as well as Martin.

“S-sorry,” he stammered and yanked the door closed.

He pressed his ear to the door, splayed his fingers against the wood, listened to them giggling, heard it give way to sighs and moans. He wasn’t okay with this, not at all, knew Martin wouldn’t care either way.

“Hey Trick, what’re you doing?” He jumped at the sound of Pete’s voice, spun guiltily to face him.

“I… I was just…” He stuttered pointless syllables as he joined Pete on the couch. Pete had his own bus. His own Ashlee. But he didn’t object as Patrick curled close to him, stroked his fingers through Patrick’s hair in silence as they stared out of the window together. “You can tell us apart, right?”

“You and Martin?” Pete sounded surprised. “You mean aside from the tattoos?”

“Like… If you couldn’t see them,” Patrick clarified, stomach churning at the thought of what was going on just a few feet away.

“I’d know my Tricky anywhere,” Pete laughed and pressed a sloppy kiss to Patrick’s sweaty brow. “You okay?”

“No. I’m not sure I am.”

They fell silent, Patrick worried at his thumb nail as Pete traced gentle patterns on his back over his damp shirt. And if Pete was shocked thirty minutes later when Martin and Hayley emerged from the bedroom, breathless and giggling, he didn’t show it, didn’t say a word but he did squeeze Patrick's hand softly. Martin looked bulkier Patrick realised dully, he must have been wearing a couple of t-shirts under the hoody to match Patrick’s body shape.

Hayley ignored him completely as she pressed a kiss to Martin’s lips, caressed the back of his neck then Martin shooed her away, “I just need to talk to Martin about something, hang out with Pete for a minute?”

Patrick followed him numbly into the bedroom and stripped down in silence, exchanged clothes with Martin like they’d done when they were kids and wanted to confuse their mom.

“Dude, did you seriously break her in?” Martin hissed under his breath. “Because good for you, she’s fucking _awesome_.”

“ _Fuck you_ ,” Patrick snarled as he zipped up his hoodie. There was a splash of come on the graphic, close to hem, he rubbed at it absently.

“What the _fuck_ is your problem?” Martin huffed, laughing at how large Patrick’s shirt was on him. “We’ve always shared.”

“We’ve always _told_ them,” Patrick snapped, somehow he didn't give Martin the satisfaction of letting him know that seeing them together had been like a knife to his heart. “You didn’t tell her. That’s… It’s fucking _sick_ , dude.”

“She’s okay with fucking _you_ ,” Martin shrugged. “What’s the difference?”

“Because I’m _not_ you!” Patrick shoved his brother sharply, felt a little spark of satisfaction as Martin staggered back against the wall. “We’re different fucking _people!_ ”

“Whatever,” Martin rolled his eyes and shoved past him.

Later, as they curled together under the sheets, Hayley rested her head against his chest, the crown of her head tucked neatly under his chin and whispered the words that struck him like knife blows, “I don’t know what got into you earlier, but you were absolutely _incredible_.”

When she fell asleep he stumbled to the bathroom, stood in front of the mirror and frowned at his reflection critically. He took in the scar on his eyebrow from a toddler tumble, the slight fullness of his cheeks and softness around his jaw. He took it in with as little emotion as he could - crushed down the usual self-loathing and forced himself to really look - and wondered, questioned, agonised. How could she _not_ have known? Not have seen the glaring differences that added up to something much more? 

He called a meeting the next day; he needed some space, needed time away from all of them, from everything. From _Martin_.

* * *

“Better?” Patrick echoes with a cold burst of bitter laughter. “Better looking? Maybe. Better shape? Definitely. But _better_? Your own _wife_ called me when things went wrong.”

“Remind me how I met my wife,” Martin taps his chin in faux concentration. “You fucking _loser_.”

“Patrick, I don’t want you here, just leave... Just _go_ ,” Hayley has a hand braced against Martin’s chest as he takes another step towards Patrick. Slow and dangerous.

“No,” Patrick turns on her with a snarl. Oh, he’s so fucking _done_ with this unmitigated fucking _bullshit_. “This isn’t how this fucking _works_ , Hayley. I’m not your fucking lapdog, you don’t get to whistle for me then send me out to the backyard when you’re bored.”

She flinches back from him for a moment, half a step, enough to open up a gap between him and Martin. He closes it quickly and they’re toe to toe, shoulders squared, identical hands curled into identical fists.

“I fucked your girl,” Martin smirks, like he can read Patrick’s mind. “I fucked Pete. I fucked _you_. I fucking _win_.”

It snaps into place for Patrick like puzzle pieces, like cogs clicking in line, the clarity of it shreds him apart, rips through each and every fibre of his being and tears him down. Martin has spent a lifetime fucking him over, a lifetime isolating him, thirty-four years making sure that no one gets too close. Because Martin - brave, strong, seven goddamn minutes older Martin - is fucking _terrified_ of losing control of him. Every incident, every action, every carefully weighted word has been analysed, considered and selected to inflict as much damage to his self esteem, as much hurt and pain as he could possibly impose so that Patrick would know he was nothing without him. All so he could mark Patrick out as his, his plaything, his toy, his alone and not to be shared.

In that split second, Patrick is hit with the overwhelming knowledge that Martin has ruined his fucking life intentionally.

He tells himself that violence is never the answer, that he’s never resorted to hitting his brother before, that this is a bad fucking idea, that there’s a goddamn baby in the house.

He still draws his fist back, snatches up with his left hand and twists his fingers into the cotton at Martin’s shoulder, feels the muscles in his bicep bunch back then snap forward as he drives his fist square into Martin’s nose. He feels cartilage give and snap, feels Martin’s hot, huffed breath against his fist, feels an explosion of white hot pain in his knuckles. He carries forward with the momentum, staggering and tripping, greeting the wall with flattened palms and heaving breath.

He presses there for a moment and doesn’t move, splays his fingers out against the plaster and feels his breath condense, cold and damp against it. He listens to Martin’s ragged breathing, to Hayley’s hitching sobs, hears the fall of his brother’s footsteps behind him. He feels the strong fingers sink into his shoulder, feels them snag a handful of his shirt and he’s dragged to face his brother. He doesn’t resist, doesn’t react, just stares at Martin impassively as he pulls back a tattooed fist and slams it into his face.

He feels his lip give and split, tastes the cherry red burst of hot blood against his teeth and tongue. His teeth feel weird, loose somehow, he tests them carefully with his tongue. Martin’s face is a mess, he notes absently, blood gushing from his suddenly crooked, swollen nose, a crimson waterfall that flows down his chin and adds a glistening slicked shine to his black shirt. They stare at one another for a long moment, neither moving. All of the sound seems to recede from the room as Patrick reaches up and delicately touches his brother’s cheek.

“I love you,” he whispers simply around a mouthful of spit and blood, leaning in and pressing his sore, throbbing lips to Martin’s, tasting their mingled blood as their tongues slide together, an act borne of familiarity, of two decades of clandestine kisses. Martin’s hand grips his hair, holding him close for a split second before he lets go and Patrick can step back. “I can’t do this any more.”

* * *

Patrick closed his eyes as Martin’s hand curled around his cock, wrapped his legs around his brother’s waist and tipped his head up, allowed their lips to brush softly. It was summer vacation and their mom was working all day, they could spend the lazy summer days in bed, the nights with Pete and Joe playing shows and writing music together.

“I love you,” Patrick whispered into Martin’s ear. “As more than a brother. Like, I know I shouldn’t but… This is pretty nice, you know?”

“Yeah?” Martin smiled, a crooked little twitch of his lips that widened as he pressed their cocks together and began to rut slowly against the crease where Patrick’s thigh met his groin. “You’re not gonna get bored of me?”

“You’re my brother and… I’m pretty sure you’re my best friend,” Patrick groaned as Martin’s grinding hit a sensitive spot.

Martin’s lips fastened to his, a velvet soft tongue stroking against his own as rough fingertips traced across his throat. He whimpered and shifted, opened himself up for Martin, invited him with everything he had to slip inside of him, to claim him. Martin resisted, carried on rocking their hips together

Martin’s hand was firm and warm as he rubbed down Patrick’s side, followed the bump of his ribs, the sharpness of a hip as he flexed his fingers, urged Patrick against him harder and faster. Patrick was close, fire curled up through his groin and flickered into his belly, his thrusts sloppy and frantic. He grasped Martin’s shoulders, licked into his mouth and tasted the familiar flavour of cigarettes and gum and the taste of his own come from earlier in the morning when he’d fucked his mouth.

He came first, hot, white ropes that slicked between their stomachs, that caught in the fine, downy hair there. His heels scrabbled against Martin’s ass, his hands falling to the pillow and curled into fists either side of his head as he thrust up weakly. Martin tipped over moments later, face pressed to the hot, damp bowl between Patrick’s collarbone and his throat.

“Yeah,” Martin sighed. “Yeah… I think I love you too. Love that you’re mine. All mine.”

“All yours. Forever.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always an absolutely enormous thank you for you coming back each week to read, I appreciate it so much and I do hope you're enjoying it! If you _are_ a regular reader and you haven't hit the kudos button yet, please feel free to do so, it makes me smile to know people are enjoying my work. If you're new here then my goodness I hope I haven't scared you away... I'm also super nice so if you wanted to comment and let me know what you think or come chat to me on tumblr - sn1tchesandtalkers - that would be pretty great too.
> 
> Keep smiling - it's almost Saturday! (Don't pretend you didn't just sing!)


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Destruction**  
>  dɪˈstrʌkʃ(ə)n/  
>  _noun_  
>  noun: destruction; plural noun: destructions  
> the action or process of causing so much damage to something that it no longer exists or cannot be repaired.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here we are again, can you believe this will all be done in two weeks? I'm getting nervous. I hope you enjoy this chapter, we've had sex, heartbreak, deception... It's time for a little good old-fashioned drama.
> 
> Accompanying artwork is by the immensely talented Das_verlorene_Kind. Please go to her blog at http://das-verlorene-kind.tumblr.com/ and take a look at all of her other incredible work!

Joe sits in an expensive leather chair around an expensive glass and chrome meeting table, sipping a cup of expensive-tasting coffee. He was one of the first here, arriving early for the stipulated 2pm commencement time. The room is filling slowly, faces he recognises from PR, from management and others he doesn't but their ID badges declare them to be from legal.

Pete is the next member of the band to arrive, waving away the offers of a cup of frankly fantastic Columbian roast in preference for the cardboard Starbucks cup - no doubt chock full of sugar and topped with cream, syrup and chocolate powder - clutched in his hand. He smiles at Joe, uncertain, makes his way over to sit next to him.

“Any idea what this is about?” Pete asks, confused. 

“I sort of hoped you might have some thoughts,” Joe shrugs. Pete returns the gesture and Joe assumes he received the same cryptic email at 11pm the night before. What concerns Joe the most is that the meeting is being held here in LA, he has no idea what Patrick and Martin are doing so far from Chicago without letting anyone know in advance.

Martin arrives fifteen minutes late, two black eyes and his nose strapped with surgical tape, a vicious looking gash across the bridge. He's wearing glasses, Joe's never seen him wear them before and marvels for a moment at how much more he looks like Patrick in the heavy black frames.

“What happened to you?” Pete asks, leaning forward in concern.

“Eat shit, Wentz,” Martin snaps. Pete jumps back, fiddles with his pen and tries not to look hurt. 

It's not that Joe doesn't know they're fucking. But he knows he's not supposed to acknowledge it. So he sips his coffee and smiles blandly at the suit sitting opposite him.

It's another five minutes before Patrick slips into the room. His eyes don't leave the floor but Joe can see the vivid slash of red that bisects his heavily swollen lower lip, the burst of fresh bruising that surrounds it. His gaze slips between Martin's knuckles and Patrick's. Both are bruised. Joe feels his eyebrows raise. Patrick looks like shit, dark circles under his eyes, magnified by his glasses, skin sickly pale and sweat beading on his brow and misting his upper lip. He looks older than his thirty-four years, drained and small and sad. He looks broken.

“Sorry I'm late,” Patrick mutters, slipping into a vacant chair. He shuffles through some papers in the expectant silence and it dawns on Joe - this is Patrick's meeting. 

A general murmur of curious assent greets him, twenty or so heads cocked towards the man looking as though he’d quite like to sink through the floor. He clears his throat, taps his fingertips lightly against the shining glass of the tabletop, glances pointlessly at the clock on the wall before speaking in a tone so low Joe barely catches it, relying more on watching his swollen lips move than the timbre of his voice.

“Look, I guess you guys are wondering why you've been asked here, right?”

Joe realises Patrick's gaze is swinging between his and Pete’s so raises his eyebrows in unspoken question. Patrick shifts awkwardly in his seat and glances down at the paper in front of him once more, pours himself a glass of water with hands that tremble so much his papers are left damp and curled at the edges, the ink bleeding across the pages. He takes a sip and sets the glass down carefully before looking back up, directly at Joe.

“Listen, dude,” he begins quietly, blue eyes anguished. Joe wants to hug him or take his hand or _something_. “I’m really sorry but… I’m leaving the band.”

There’s a low hum of noise from the various suited label staff around the table, phones are pulled out and conversations - both verbal and by email - begin. Pete stiffens in the chair next to him, flinching back as though Patrick has punched him, his breath coming in hard, sharp bursts. Joe flicks a glance at Martin, glaring at his water glass, refusing to look at anyone.

“That’s… Wow,” Joe stands and moves to crouch by Patrick, hand on his shoulder. It feels like talking Ruby out of a tantrum when she’s sobbing until she’s red and shaking. “Are you sure?”

Before Patrick can answer, Pete is on his feet, Starbucks cup hurled against the wall where it explodes against the paintwork, the coffee spraying outwards like blood spatter. Hysterical tears claw at the edges of his voice as he begins to scream, everyone in the room falling silent.

“No!” He slams a fist against the table. “Not again! You don’t get to fucking _do_ this again you selfish fucking _prick!”_

Patrick huddles down in his chair, hands balled into tight fists in his lap as he stares down at the table, burning heat rising up from his collar. Submissive and broken. 

“So, what? The two of you have a fight, you decide you’re done fucking _him,”_ he points an accusatory finger at Martin who hisses a threatening _fuck you_ under his breath, eyes burning into Pete. “And now you’re gonna fuck the rest of us?”

“Sit down, Pete,” Joe mutters softly, squeezing Patrick’s shoulder in a way he hopes is reassuring. “You’re making an ass of yourself.”

“No!” Pete kicks at his chair, knocks it back against the carpet with a dull thud, smashes a water glass, continues to scream. “We’re not supposed to talk about it but everyone knows they’re fucking, everyone knew it was gonna fucking _implode_ and I’m just supposed to be _okay_ with him fucking my fucking life _again?”_

The silence that falls is awkward. The proverbial pin could be heard to drop. Joe has no idea what to say because of course what Pete is saying is absolutely true. Patrick breaks it with quiet dignity, looking up and meeting Pete’s blazing amber eyes without wavering.

“I know what the fans write about my brother and I on those weird fucking fanfiction sites,” his voice is level and controlled. “I didn’t think you, of all people, would stoop to that level.”

“Asshole,” Pete snarls and for a moment Joe thinks he might take a swing. “You selfish fucking _asshole.”_

In a split second Pete makes that decision, pushing his way across the room until he has Patrick by the collar, shoving him back into the chair, fist drawn back. Patrick scrabbles uselessly against the floor with his heels, tries to get his hands up to defend his face as a soft whimper slips between his lips. Joe fumbles to his feet but Martin is quicker, has Pete by the scruff of his neck and thrown against the wall in moments, Pete’s eyes wide and bulging as he pins him by the neck of his shirt.

“Don’t you lay a fucking finger on him or I swear I’ll break every fucking bone in your body,” Martin mutters quietly, lips very close to Pete’s, close enough to kiss, dropping him after a second and throwing himself back into his chair. Pete staggers, giddy, crashes into the wall for a moment before righting himself and bracing against the edge of the table, face buried in his hands as his shoulders start to shake.

Patrick looks as though he’s burning with humiliation, tears making his eyes glitter behind his glasses as he leans momentarily into Joe, his eyes falling closed as he gathers himself. Joe squeezes his shoulder lightly, mutters softly into his ear, “It’s okay man. It’s cool.”

Patrick smiles gratefully, gropes to squeeze Joe’s hand lightly and waits for the buzz in the room to settle before continuing.

“I’m not breaking up the band,” he ignores Pete’s hard snort of mirthless laughter. “You guys are free to continue Fall Out Boy in whatever way you want without me. I’ll want royalties for anything I’ve written but we’ll do it our usual way, equal split. I, uh… I need you guys in legal to look over that for me.”

Someone in a sharp suit makes agreeable noises. Joe can feel Patrick trembling against him, can see his heart beating through the thin cotton of his shirt.

“This isn’t happening, this isn’t fucking happening, this - is - not - fucking - happening,” Pete is close to hyperventilating as he paces the room like a caged animal, swiping at random piles of papers as he goes. 

“I’m really sorry,” Patrick addresses the room as a whole. “I just… I can’t do this any more.”

“Wait,” Pete leans forward over the table, a drowning man grabbing onto a lifebelt. “Martin, the two of you are identical, right?”

“Fuck off, Pete,” Martin snarls, fingers once again curling into fists. Joe wonders for a moment if Pete is going to end up with a lip that matches Patrick’s.

“No, seriously, can you sing?” Pete presses on undeterred. “Like Patrick? We can get another drummer, that’s-”

“Fuck _off_ , Pete,” Martin’s voice rises sharply.

Joe looks at him with speculative interest. He looks embarrassed. He looks… humiliated actually, his cheeks stained red, eyes glittering with impotent fury. Suddenly Joe gets it. Martin is jealous, childishly, overwhelmingly jealous of his brother’s musical talent and ability. The one thing he couldn’t make him share, couldn’t snatch away from him.

“Yeah, man,” he can’t resist poking the bear a little. “Drummers are, like, a dime a dozen. But someone that can sing like Patrick? Fucking priceless. So, can you do it?”

“Yeah,” Patrick is smiling faintly as he looks at his brother. “Good luck with that.”

“Do you want to come outside for a smoke?” Joe asks softly. Patrick nods gratefully and follows him out of the room, the noise swelling behind them, the buzz of chatter amongst the label staff, Pete’s hysterical sobs. It falls silent as the door swings closed and they make their way through the maze of corridors until they’re outside and Joe is downwind with a cigarette between his lips.

“How are you so calm?” Patrick asks quietly, leaning back against a wall and slipping off his glasses to cuff at his eyes.

Joe looks at him closely. He feels the years fall away and they’re two kids stood outside Borders talking shit about music. 

“Everyone thinks I’m just the stoner,” he takes a deep drag on his cigarette. “But I’m not even close to as dumb as everyone thinks.”

“I never thought you were dumb,” Patrick murmurs. “You’re… You’re one of the smartest people I know.”

“That’s debatable,” Joe shrugs. “I guess… I suppose I’ve watched this shit unfold for seventeen years. I’m the outsider. It’s Patrick and Pete or Patrick and Martin or Martin and Pete.”

“I’m sorry,” Patrick whispers.

“Don’t be,” Joe smiles softly. “I should be the one apologising. I’ve let them do this to you. I never said anything, told myself it was none of my business. Because... I guess it was easier. You know?”

Patrick wipes his glasses off on the hem of his shirt and settles them back on the bridge of his nose and suddenly he’s eighteen again, cap settled on his head, hands shoved into his pockets. 

“I thought I did the right thing,” Patrick’s shoulders heave with a shuddering sigh. “Getting him in the band? I just… I’ve made him worse. He’s my fault.”

“None of this is your fault,” Joe shakes his head. “We built a fucking castle on the sand.”

“And now the tide’s coming in,” Patrick’s lips twist into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. 

“Right,” Joe nods and takes a final draw of his cigarette, grinding it out under the heel of his shoe and running a hand through his hair. Patrick watches him, that small smile still playing around his lips, his eyes still bright with pain and regret. “What? What’re you smiling at?”

“You,” Patrick murmurs softly. “Look at you. You grew up. Fuck… When do you suppose the rest of us will do the same?”

“You’re okay, dude,” Joe pulls Patrick into a tight hug, crushing him to his chest and dropping a kiss onto the crown of his head, suddenly fiercely protective of his friend, it’s too little, too late but it’s all he has, all he can give in these dying moments of their adventure. Because Patrick has walked away before but last time it was tentative, it was maybes and promises and a future somewhere on the horizon. This time Joe can sense the door closing, the lights dimming, the curtain falling. This feels like an ending. “You’re gonna do just fine.”

Patrick huddles into him, gratitude radiating from him - for the hug, the calm reaction or something more Joe just can’t tell - his arms tight around his waist as he cries. His shirt feels hot and damp where Patrick’s face is tucked in, his glasses digging into his shoulder painfully but he holds him tightly, rocks him slightly and rubs his back as he murmurs reassurance into the cap tucked under his chin. It smells of Patrick, of his bunk, of borrowed hoodies and post show hugs. When Patrick pulls back he’s a mess of snot and tears and eyes rimmed as red as if they’d been tucked away in the van with a couple of joints like the good old days.

“What will you do?” Patrick asks hoarsely. “The band, I mean. Are you gonna… Do you think you’ll stay with them?”

“Depends,” Joe smiles playfully and squeezes Patrick’s shoulders. “Can your brother sing like you?”

“Martin?” Patrick snorts softly around his tears, shines with a strange sort of pride that Joe hasn’t seen him express before. It suits him. “Nah. Can’t sing for shit, turns out it’s not in the DNA. But seriously, I don’t want to fuck your life up…”

“I’ve seen this coming for a while man,” Joe scrubs at the stubble on his jaw as he tries to articulate what he wants to say. This storm has clouded his horizon for years, since they got back together he’s watched lightning flash and thunder rumble in the distance, braced in anticipation as it drifted closer and closer then watched it skirt around them, the winds howling so close they took his breath away but never quite consumed them. He watched Martin coil around his bandmates, watched him snare them closer and closer, watched him crush a relationship between Pete and Patrick that Joe had assumed was a certainty from the day that they met. He’s watched and he’s stayed silent and now the guilt is crippling him as he looks at his broken friend, watches as Patrick nods sadly. “You haven’t fucked up my life. These past seventeen years have been fucking incredible, I’ve had a fucking blast. Met my wife, had my daughter, I wouldn’t change a thing. Well, maybe one thing.”

“Oh?” Patrick is braced against the wall once more, pressing back into it like he needs it to keep him anchored, like he wants to sink into it.

“I should’ve protected you,” Joe shrugs, shame nibbling at his edges. “From him. I shouldn’t have made you let him into the band. I should’ve… I don’t know. Maybe things could’ve been different.”

“He’s my brother,” Patrick shrugs with a simplicity that breaks Joe’s heart, his inevitable acceptance of Martin’s crushing darkness. His brother has stolen everything from him and he just takes it. “I’m not sure what I am without him.”

“A good man, Patrick,” Joe assures him in earnest. He aches for him to understand, needs him to appreciate himself and all he has to offer. “You’re a fucking good man. Anyway, I’ve been talking to this guy from back home - Andy Hurley, remember him? - turns out his band is looking for a new guitarist. It’s not Fall Out Boy but it’s… It’s music and he seems like a great guy.”

“Hurley?” Patrick scrubs at his stubbled jaw with a frown. “Didn’t we audition him before… You know.”

“Yeah,” Joe nods. “We stayed in touch. He-”

Joe is cut off by a whirl of frantic energy blasting into the courtyard. Pete is agonised fury in a Gucci sweater, heartbreak and anger carved into each plane of his face as he grabs Patrick by the shoulders, pushes him back into the wall and crashes their lips together. Joe looks away but not before he sees the pink swipe of Pete’s tongue pressing into Patrick’s mouth, not before he sees Patrick’s fingers tangle in Pete’s dark hair, not before he hears Patrick groan desperately.

“Don’t leave me,” Pete begs and Joe wants to punch him square in the crotch for all of the hurt he’s inflicted, for the hurt he’s still inflicting and the hurt he’ll inevitably inflict in the future. “You… You can’t fucking leave me. Not again, Trick. Please… Don’t do this… We can be whatever you need us to be.”

Patrick leans into Pete like he needs him to stay upright, like he needs him to keep breathing, to keep _being_. Pete’s wiry frame supports Patrick’s broader body with ease, pinning him with chest and hips and thighs and Patrick is a picture of satisfied gratitude as he sags into the man Joe knows he’s loved for over half his life. 

“You can’t leave me,” Pete continues to mutter, dragging pointlessly at Patrick’s shirt, kissing his cheeks, his nose, his jaw and down to his neck, back up to his lips. Patrick’s eyes are closed, head tipped back against the wall, face a picture of ecstatic need. “We can get rid of Martin, get another drummer. Not you, Trick, you can’t leave me…”

“Pete… Please,” Patrick’s voice is choked with anguish and Joe doesn’t know what to do, how to intrude on this intensely private moment when he knows Patrick needs his protection even if he doesn’t realise it himself. “I mean… What… You want us to be… Together?”

“We can work out the details,” Pete’s hand is cupping Patrick’s cock and Joe glances around anxiously. Anyone could see, anyone could take a picture and… And _what?_ The band has imploded anyway. 

“Pete,” Joe cuts in carefully, hand on Pete’s shoulder, faltering as he’s batted away angrily.

“This could be good, Trick,” Pete murmurs into Patrick’s throat, hands sliding under Patrick’s shirt, Joe can see him stroking up and down Patrick’s sides under the thin fabric. Patrick looks on the verge of blowing his load. “ _We_ could be good.”

“Fuck, Pete,” Patrick groans. “You have no idea… No fucking idea…”

“We need to keep it quiet,” Pete mumbles against Patrick’s lips and Joe could almost laugh at the absurdity of such a statement in the middle of a public courtyard but the pain in Patrick’s eyes dampens any humour he could possibly find in the situation as Pete continues. “If Meagan found out…”

“You… You want me on the side?” Patrick whispers, eyes suddenly dull with pain. Joe’s heart aches for him once more, knows he’s picturing another seventeen years of waiting on the sidelines of someone else’s relationship, waiting in his apartment for Pete to swing by for a weekend of platitudes and sex before the silence falls again, of sneaking around in hotels and venues, of staying silent in corners of rooms that reek of come and sweat while Pete calls Meagan and tells her he loves her. He sees it all in one glance from Patrick’s eyes, the same shade as storm capped waves, darkened with agony and loneliness. 

“Don’t,” Pete frames Patrick’s pale face with his honey-toned hands, swipes at tears with his thumbs. “Don’t think of it that way. I have the kids to think about. It’s you I love, really she’ll be the one-”

“No,” Patrick cuts him off with a firmness that surprises Joe. His face flushes with anger and he stiffens against Pete, straightens his back and squares his shoulders, shoves Pete firmly back and away from him. “You… I can’t fucking _do_ this any more. What part of that don’t you understand? I’m fucking _done_ with this fucking bullshit from the both of you. You want someone to fuck on the side? Go fuck _him_. Again.”

“How…” Pete reels back for a moment, Joe slides smoothly between the two of them, slinging a protective arm around Patrick’s shoulders. “Martin and I aren’t…”

“Go fuck yourself, Pete, I fucking _saw_ you,” the ire seems to drain from him as his breath hitches and he presses his face briefly into Joe’s shoulder. “I fucking saw you, man.”

“Patrick, I can explain,” Pete begins weakly. “I just wanted… He was so much like _you_ and I just-”

“Fuck off,” Patrick sighs, waving away Pete’s protestations with a weak hand. “You don’t get to tell me you just wanted it to be me when you knew… You knew what I wanted. How I felt. You didn’t give a shit, you just wanted to fuck one of us and he was the easy option.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Pete mutters. “It was never like that.”

They fall into uneasy silence, Joe and Patrick facing off against Pete, hunkered down into his expensive sweater like he thinks it’s a suit of armor. This is all the band has been for the past nine years at least, probably from the start, Joe realises, tactical units maneuvered around the battlefield by Martin, the commander, the puppetmaster, the fucking organ grinder surrounded by his dancing monkeys. 

“Where the fuck were you?” Patrick asks quietly, eyes on his shoes.

“What?” Pete mutters into his collar. “I don't…”

“When Hayley left me, where the _fuck_ were you, man?” Patrick's voice glows with hurt and fury. “I… I fucking _needed_ you and where the… Where _were_ you?”

“I didn't know what to do,” Pete confesses softly. “The last time she left you… I couldn't… I can't deal with your darkness _and_ mine, dude. I just…”

“I get it,” Patrick mutters, flat and broken and empty. Joe aches for him, for the hurt and the loneliness. “I understand.”

“I’m sorry,” Pete mutters eventually, reaching into Joe’s pocket with a sigh and extracting cigarettes and a lighter, cupping his hands around the flame as he takes a deep draw, eyes falling closed as he inhales deeply. He holds it for a moment, eyes still closed, before letting go a stream of smoke and fixing his gaze on Patrick. “I mean… I’m just sorry.”

“You’re not,” Patrick shrugs, cheeks streaked with tears. “You’re just saying what you think I want to hear. It’s over Pete. The band, whatever the fuck you and I are supposed to be… It’s done.”

The sharp, unbearable silence that falls is interrupted by the thump of heavy boots against the floor of the corridor at their backs. Patrick tenses as Martin joins them, body taut against Joe’s side as his brother lounges back against the wall and extracts a carton of cigarettes from his pocket, offers them around and shrugs as no one reacts. His cheeks hollow as he lights the one caught between his lips and takes a deep draw, seemingly enjoying the silence as he smiles slowly up at the sky and exhales a series of perfect smoke rings.

“So,” he begins lightly. “You done sulking there, little guy?”

“Don’t you get it?” Joe hisses, anger pounding through him like his heartbeat, staccato against his chest, a furious throb of raging pain that this man - this fucking _asshole_ \- is the reason, the very reason for everything dark and sinister about something that should have been great. “Don’t you fucking _understand_ what you’ve done?”

“Oh please,” Martin is still staring at the bright blue of an LA sky, his glasses bouncing it back and making it impossible to see his eyes. “He’ll calm down, won’t you Patrick? _Again_ …”

“I meant what I said,” Patrick’s voice falters and shakes, he’s leaning on Joe as though he’ll fall if he doesn’t, hand fisted in the soft cotton in the small of Joe’s back like a crutch. “I can’t do this. You’re killing me, Martin. You’re actually fucking killing me.”

“So dramatic,” Martin takes another deep draw. “Always attention seeking. Patrick, the musical genius. You can’t _deal_ without us, dickhead. Remember the last time you did this? When you fucked Folie up so badly we got fucking _booed?_ Remember Soul Punk? Yeah, _that_ went well. I was there, I saw those kids, no one fucking… They bought tickets to _insult_ you! You’re a pathetic little piece of shit but even _I_ thought-”

“Shut the fuck up, Martin,” Joe has no idea how it happens or what he’s doing but somehow he has the blond by the collar of his leather jacket, pinned to the wall, his skull cracking satisfyingly against the bricks. “Go. Get the fuck out and leave. We’re done. This is fucking _done.”_

Martin scrabbles against him for a moment, pushes at his hands, looks as though he’s considering taking a swing. Joe is taller. Joe is broader. Joe will slam his knuckles into that nicely broken nose again if he has to. Martin relaxes, lets his fists drop to his sides and resumes his arrogant smirk.

“So I guess you won’t want to stay in the band either?” He asks, voice light with fake friendship.

“With _you?”_ Joe barks a laugh, drops his collar and takes a step back. “I wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fucking _fire_ , asshole.”

“Looks like it’s just you and me,” Martin smirks at Pete. “Still, a shitty guitarist and mediocre vocalist shouldn’t be too hard to replace. Hey, what was that kid called that you sniff around, Patrick? Brandon? Bradley? _He_ can sing, nice tight ass, yeah, I could work with him.”

Pete stares at Martin for a long moment, amber eyes alight with something Joe doesn’t recognise. Pete has always been so loud, so rambunctious, _go big or go home_ , everything is on display he doesn’t, hasn’t, _can’t_ hold back. But right now he’s still. He’s unreadable. He touches a couple of fingertips to his lips for a second, then his pulse point, drops the hand and fidgets with the hem of his sweater.

“No,” he whispers. Martin’s brows draw down and his mouth flattens into a hard, angry line, fists clenched in impotent fury. “I just… You’re… _No.”_

“What the fuck do you mean, _no?”_ He snarls, he’s three steps across the courtyard and Joe looms at his shoulder once again. He backs down. Snarls wordlessly at the toes of his shoes. 

Patrick is smiling. It’s soft and it’s sure and his eyes are alight as he takes a step away from the wall and speaks, voice clear and strong.

“I think what everyone’s trying to say,” he begins, only continuing when he has his brother’s eyes on him. “Is go fuck yourself, Martin.”

With that he turns and pulls Joe into a sharp hug, crushing him tightly to his chest as he reaches up to mutter in his ear _thanks for the fucking memories, man, seriously_. Joe feels his chest constrict as he hugs him back for the briefest moment then Patrick is disengaging from his arms and, with a final sad smile, he slips back into the building, quickly lost in the maze of corridors and, Joe assumes, on his way out of the main door without so much as a backward glance. The courtyard rings with the silence that hangs as bitter as blood between the three men left standing and looking anywhere but at one another.

A moment of silence for the death of Fall Out Boy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again I cannot thank you enough for coming on this frankly weird ride with me, I'm so, so pleased that people are taking the time to read this.
> 
> As always, comments and kudos really are the lifeblood of any writer's work so I'd be so very grateful if you could take the time to hit the button and/or send me a few words of your thoughts. I'm also on tumblr - sn1tchesandtalkers - if you just want to hang out and chat! Plus it was my birthday earlier in the week so being nice to me would be like a completely free birthday gift! How often do you get that opportunity?


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Disaster  
> **  
>  dɪˈzɑːstə/  
>  _noun_  
>  an event or fact that has unfortunate consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back - I can hardly believe you're all still here 14 chapters into this utter madness. Once again, the _beautiful_ artwork is the work of the always amazing Das_verlorene_Kind. Please go to her blog at http://das-verlorene-kind.tumblr.com/ and take a look at all of her other incredible work!

 

It’s been six months since Patrick walked out of Island Records.

 

Six months since he spoke to Martin or Pete though he stays in touch with Joe, meets him for dinner on the rare occasions he finds himself in Los Angeles or Joe makes his way to Chicago. He knows he’s retreated into himself, knows he spends way too much time in his own company but he sort of likes it. It’s lonely, but it’s loneliness on his own terms and not someone else’s. He likes the control he can exercise over it. 

 

But, sometimes he thinks maybe he should get a dog or a cat, just so he stops feeling like he’s going crazy when he talks to himself in the apartment because he hasn’t heard a voice beyond the TV in three days.

 

The distance he's granted himself from his brother has provided the most agonising clarity. In other circumstances they could have been close, could have adored one another in the way brothers should. He was in love with Martin, wrenching away from him has proven no less painful than any other breakup. The endless speculation he's been able to grant their relationship has shown him one thing if nothing else - Martin loved him too. Twisted, bitter, misplaced and reprehensible. But it was love. The kind of damaging love that tears the recipient to shreds, that leaves them ripped apart and bleeding and still isn't enough.

 

The separation was, is and no doubt will continue to be the most painful kind of psychological torture, he _aches_ for Martin with an agony that's almost visceral. He long for his voice, his warm, rough fingertips against the side of his neck, lips that match with his own like puzzle pieces. But, he reminds himself, he doesn't want what goes along with it, the insecurity, the uncertainty, the worthlessness.

 

Martin went down fighting, call after call after call blasting through Patrick's phone at every conceivable hour of the day and night. Voicemails that swung from gently persuasive to drunken insults and threats slurred hot and thick down the line. He changed his number. Changed it more than once but somehow Martin always seemed to find it.

 

He only showed up at the apartment once, leaning on the intercom and screaming at Patrick to get his ass outside. Patrick cowered into the couch, phone pressed to his ear as Brendon soothed him quietly until the concierge got bored of the display and called the police. But now his phone is silent - has been for the past couple of months - and Patrick can't decide if that's better or worse.

 

He’s not sure if he’s happy, but he knows he’s _happier_ and for now, in this moment, that seems like it might be enough. He has people he can hang out with, of course he does, and sometimes he’ll call one of them, go to a bar and watch a local band or go out for dinner. But mostly he enjoys his own company, spends his days discovering just who he is outside of Martin and Pete.

 

He fumbles for his phone as it bursts into life on the table in front of him and finds himself smiling a little at Brendon’s name on the screen.

 

“Hey man,” he greets him. He’s in a coffee shop close to the lake, watching the water over the rim of his cup. His laptop is open on the table in front of him, half-written fragments of some terrible screenplay he thinks he might inflict on the world someday laid out in front of him. “What’s up?”

 

“Dude,” Brendon’s smile is audible. They haven’t seen one another in a couple of months and Patrick’s sort of missed him, not that he can tell him that, he’s having the time of his fucking life touring the world with his friends. The healthier version of Patrick’s own youth. “I have a proposition for you.”

 

“Is this going to be like the last time?” Patrick had protested that he didn’t want to go drinking with a group of guys in their early twenties but Brendon had insisted. The hangover took the best part of a week to fully release him from its grasp. “Because seriously, I’m never doing that again. I didn’t know I could throw up that much… Like, I actually didn’t think it was _possible.”_

 

“Way better than that,” Brendon pauses for a moment with something that sounds suspiciously like uncertainty before barrelling ahead, words tripping over one another, chasing between his lips and down the phone line. “We talked about you dating, right? Well... I know someone who wants to go out for dinner with you. Tonight.”

 

“D-date?” Patrick stammers the word softly, setting down his coffee cup before his trembling hands slop the contents over his MacBook. “Brendon, no…”

 

Patrick feels as though he hasn’t been sure about anything at all since the day he quit the band but he’s certain he doesn’t want to date. He’s told Brendon as much every time he’s brought it up, a firm smile, a quiet _I don’t think so, Bren_ and a gentle change of subject. He’s made himself perfectly clear. Relationships crumble around him, his heart is too scarred, he’s too imperfect for anyone to want to put him back together. No, it’s safer that Patrick keeps to himself, takes enjoyment from other aspects of his life.

 

“Non-negotiable,” Brendon insists. “I’ve got to go but put on your least old-guy cardigan and get to Kurah for eight.”

 

With that he hangs up and when Patrick calls back he doesn’t answer. He could just not show up but Brendon is _persistent_ and there’s every possibility some random stranger will appear at his front door demanding their date. He doesn’t have time for this shit, he’s got a track to work on for an upcoming movie, some production work for a just-getting-established band and he had plans to lie on the couch in his underwear watching Gilmore Girls and eating Ben and Jerry’s. Fuck Brendon Urie.

 

He sighs, irritated and nervous, and closes the lid of his MacBook. He has nothing appropriate to wear for a date with someone he knows literally nothing about. Oh god, he hopes Brendon hasn’t fixed him up with some eighteen year old friend of a friend, some pretty girl freshly arrived in Chicago for college or something. Or some painfully cool instagram sensation, the kind Brendon hangs out with, wearing clothes that he doesn’t get and talking in riddles he doesn’t understand. There is literally no conceivable way that Brendon goddamn Urie knows someone that would be interested in a has-been musician in a cardigan and nerd glasses.

 

He spends the rest of his afternoon in tortured uncertainty, swinging violently between nervous anticipation and the urge to climb under his bed and refuse to come out. The anticipation is easy to crush down, what would anyone want with him anyway? No, this is just an excuse to eat arabic food and get steaming drunk when it all goes wrong. But _The Fear?_ That’s harder to control. He hasn’t been on a date in ten years - not since Hayley - and he has no idea how to act, what to say, what to wear. He should call Brendon, tell him exactly what he thinks of him for putting him in this position then go and get wasted at the nearest bar where no one can find him.

 

But he won’t. 

 

He’s ready by seven. Showered and shaved, his nicest button down - plain blue, the shade that makes his eyes a little brighter - tucked into dress pants and a pair of Oxfords on his feet. He sighs as he looks in the mirror and combs his fingers through his bangs, he looks like a thirty-four year old man going on a blind date. Which, he supposes, is exactly what he is. He just thought his life might be a little more glamorous at this stage. Not that it matters because he’s doing this purely so that Brendon will leave him alone.

 

When the cab pulls up outside the restaurant he notes with a frisson of panic that he’s early. He hates being early. Hates being the one staring at the menu while he waits to be stood up. His hands shake as he pays the driver and his ears ring with his pulse, this is a fucking _terrible_ idea. The ice cream is still in the freezer at home, he could be back there and down to his boxers in twenty minutes. But Brendon would be disappointed with him…. At least if he tries he’ll have a viable excuse to never entertain the idea again when it all goes horribly, inevitably wrong.

 

He enters the restaurant, eyes swinging frantically around the room. It could be anyone - the tall, handsome guy with his ten thousand dollar watch, staring at Patrick with disdain from the bar. It could be the beautiful woman in the designer dress, dark hair wound up in some kind of fancy chignon as she stares down at the wine menu in studied concentration, clearly avoiding eye contact with the short, chubby weirdo staring at her. His heartbeat increases frantically and he can feel himself starting to breathe hard and fast. Terrible idea. Really fucking shitty idea.

 

His gaze, darting around the room wildly, lands on a pair of softly smiling eyes, the same colour as bitter chocolate. Below them are full, pink lips quirked up in a grin that seems - to Patrick at least - gently sympathetic and just a touch arrogantly teasing.

 

“Brendon?” He crosses the room and braces his weight against the chair opposite his fucking asshole of a friend. “What the _fuck_ … Where… Who?”

 

“Sit down,” Brendon gestures to the chair. “Just… Have a drink, okay?”

 

Patrick slumps into the chair and takes a moment to fight back tears.

 

“When did they tell you they weren’t coming?” He whispers hoarsely, humiliation burning through him and turning his cheeks a no doubt deeply unflattering red.

 

“Trick, I-”

 

“Seriously,” tears choke him and he slugs down a mouthful of Brendon’s ridiculous fruity cocktail to try and abate them a little. “You should have told me they changed their mind. I… I put myself out there and-”

 

“Patrick,” Brendon raises his voice a little.

 

Patrick can barely see through the blur of mortified tears, he presses balled fists into his eye sockets for a moment, pushing his glasses up onto his brow, and breathes deeply. He’s so embarrassed, so filled with shame and hurt and anger. Brendon must have let slip who he was and who could blame them for bailing, who would want him? No one wanted him when he was famous, when he was more than just the loser with a MacBook, who would be interested now? Less than no one, it would appear.

 

Fury rips through him, burning and hot and shocking in it’s intensity as he slams his fists down against the table hard enough to make the tableware rattle. Brendon jumps a little in his chair which sends a perverse thrill of satisfaction down Patrick’s spine. Good, let him feel uncomfortable, let him see what he’s inflicted, cocky little shit.

 

“You,” he hisses, face contorted with rage as he points a finger squarely at Brendon. “Why didn’t you fucking _tell_ me? Why did you let me get dressed up and… and fucking _humiliate_ myself? Is this funny? Does it seem fucking _funny_ to you, Brendon? You’re a fucking _asshole_...”

 

“Patrick, would you calm down-”

 

“No,” he wants to throw things, wants to rage and scream that his best friend - his fucking _only_ friend it often feels like - would do this to him. He’s had time to get dressed up, had time to make it here and order a drink which means he’s had ample time to send Patrick a text to let him know the date was off. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so fucking embarrassed my whole life, I got dressed up, well sort of, I… I was _trying_ -”

 

He’s cut off by soft, warm lips closing over his own, tenses in shock and confusion for a moment, enough time for Brendon to grasp his hand over the table, lacing their fingers together, palms pressed close as he lowers himself back into his seat.

 

“It’s _me,”_ Brendon groans softly. “And you’re a fucking idiot.”

 

“Oh…” Patrick stares at their hands, Brendon’s seems impossibly large against his own, square with elegant fingers - pianist’s hands - he watches absently as they curl around his own. He opens his mouth to speak, snaps it closed and takes a deep breath. Tries again, his voice a hard rasp. “I don’t… I don’t think I get it.”

 

“Your date,” Brendon clears his throat self consciously and makes a sweeping gesture with his free hand that encompasses his paisley silk jacket - of fucking course - the white shirt with the top button popped and soft, satin scarf draped around his neck. “The person that wanted to go out for dinner with you? It was… _Is_ … Me.”

 

“So you wanted to hang out?” Patrick’s voice is strangled as he yanks his hand back, tucks it into his lap so he won’t give in to the urge to sock Brendon in the jaw. “You couldn’t have just fucking _said_ that? You told me I was going on a fucking _date_...”

 

“You don't get it… Fuck, _please_ at least _try_ to get it,” Brendon protests, his easy confidence apparently floundering a little. “ _I_ wanted to take you out. On a date. A romantic one, like, you know, candlelit restaurant? But I knew you’d just say I’m too young if I asked and… I guess I’m trying to say I think… I think I might really like you, man.”

 

“What?” Patrick is baffled, doesn’t object when a waiter slides a whiskey onto the table next to his elbow, just knocks it back with a grimace. Brendon must have ordered for him. “I don’t understand… _What?”_

 

“I just,” Brendon takes a deep breath, eyes closed and fingers steepled under his chin. When his eyes reopen he focuses on Patrick with a shy smile before continuing in voice laced with soft uncertainty. “I think I might be… Well, I think I sort of love you.”

 

“You _love_ me?” Patrick’s voice slides up into a squeak, heart hammering in bewilderment as he glances at the door. He could be out of the damn restaurant in twenty paces, into a cab and on his way home where Brendon can’t terrify him. “What the _fuck_ are you talking about?”

 

“I don’t know,” Brendon shrugs helplessly. “I’m twenty-one. I’ve never actually… I’ve never been in love before. But I know I have, like, four notebooks of love songs that I wrote thinking about you. And I know I look forward to hearing your voice when you call me. And I know I hate _not_ being around you, like… I just want to be around you, you know? Is… Is that love?”

 

Patrick should close his mouth, he can feel a soft breeze ghosting over his tongue as he stares at Brendon from terrified eyes. His fingers clench and unclench uselessly against his palms, mouth dry and tongue uselessly thick. Brendon. Loves him. Him. Brendon. _This_ Brendon. This is _ridiculous._

 

“Brendon,” he begins, trying for a note of authoritative alpha male but winding up with a pathetic rasp of noise that scrapes against his throat painfully. “Come on, man. I'm… I'm _thirty-four_. I'm thirteen years older than you. I'm old enough to be your… cool uncle.”

 

Brendon's lips twitch into another smile, his fingers fluttering against the tablecloth nervously. He looks so young, so heartbreakingly youthful with his sparkle and charm and Patrick can't bring himself to take that away from him, can't dampen his light with the inevitable darkness that follows him everywhere. Brendon deserves to spend his youth being hopeful and basking in someone that can reflect his sparkle right back at him not trailing in the shadows of a washed up never-was. 

 

“I really don't care that you're old… _er_ than me,” Brendon shrugs delicately and takes another little sip of his drink before continuing with a twinkle in his eyes. “My mom says I'm ridiculously mature for my age.”

 

“I've literally watched you demand to settle an argument with a dance off,” Patrick objects. 

 

“More mature than fighting,” Brendon grins and tries to take Patrick's hand once more, the ghost of hurt embarrassment flitting across his features as Patrick snatches it back once again and tucks it neatly into his lap. “Come on, man. I can keep you young or… Something.”

 

Patrick isn't ready for this. That much he's absolutely certain of, everything with Martin and Hayley and Pete has left him raw, hearing Brendon utter those words has done nothing but demonstrate that he's categorically, unequivocally not prepared to hear them right now. They make him want to curl in on himself, to crawl into his bed and pull up the covers until every inch of his skin stops stinging with it. He stares down at his hands and picks carefully at the skin around his thumbnail until it's shredded and bleeding, bites down on his lip until it aches and throbs.

 

“I’m not ready for this,” he mutters at the dessert spoon in front of him. “You shouldn’t… This was a _terrible_ way for you to do this… Like, literally, are you actually fucking _insane?”_

 

“We’re good together,” Brendon shrugs, picking at the fruit in his drink. “You’re this grouchy little musical genius with terrible sweaters and I’m… I’m this super talented, laidback, handsome, well-dressed-”

 

“Yes, you’re gorgeous, Bren,” Patrick rolls his eyes. “I get it.”

 

“This is what I _mean,”_ Brendon implores him, leaning forward over the table. “You keep me in check, you just… Like, even when we’re fucking you’re this grousey little shit-”

 

“You’re fucking terrible at this,” Patrick feels a smile tugging at the corners of his lips, strangely at odds with the tears he can feel pricking his eyes. “Ridiculously bad.”

 

Maybe in another life there could have been something like this for him, shared jokes and warm smiles. Okay, maybe not Brendon, but someone, someone all his own that he didn’t have to share. Someone that got to him before he was broken, before the urge to love and be loved was overwhelmed by the need to keep himself safe. Love is for the hopeful, he realises, it’s for people like Brendon who can dive in headfirst and to hell with the consequences. It’s not for the cautious, the hesitant, the weak, the ones that hang back and peer over the side and cluck that it’s a long way to fall with no guarantee of being caught safely at the bottom.

 

“So make me not terrible, show me how to do this _right,”_ Brendon leans back in his chair with a hopeful smile. “Move out to LA with me. I just got a place, just rented for now but... And… Oh man, you’d love it, there’s this hot tub in the backyard and we could-”

 

“That’s a huge jump from dinner date,” this time Patrick does laugh, a little choked at the edges, but it’s definitely a laugh. “And I hate LA.”

 

“You’d love it if you were with me,” Brendon assures him and Patrick wants to believe it. Wants to imagine a life of sunshine and palm trees and sitting on the deck drinking cold white wine together. Lazy morning blowjobs and late night sex marathons that stretch into the early hours, falling asleep tangled together on sweaty sheets and waking up aching with it. 

 

“It would never work,” he sighs deeply. 

 

“We could try,” Brendon prompts hopefully. Fuck he’s so hopeful, so bright with it. Twenty-one and the world at his feet, the last thing he needs is to saddle himself with Patrick. He can imagine him with some beautiful young thing, someone like Ryan, pretty and boyish and fresh. A whole host of them before he settles himself down. Because, if Patrick’s honest, the thing he fears most is the end. Maybe it could be good, great even, they have chemistry, they’re close but what happens when the fatigue sets in? When it goes from fucking until they ache to arguing about who forgot to organise the recycling to the thousand and one little things that erode a relationship. Where will Patrick go when Brendon grows bored of him?

 

They lapse into silence, Brendon stares down at the table as Patrick continues to worry at his thumb. A waiter comes to take their order and Patrick remains silent as Brendon recites a list and hands back the menus, leans forward to prop his elbow on the table and chin on his knuckles. His stare burns into Patrick, his skin heating with it, but it’s summer sunshine, warm and soft and he raises his eyes with an apologetic smile.

 

“You deserve better,” he whispers, hands shaking as he toys with his fork. Brendon shakes his head with a sad smile. “You wouldn’t be happy with me.”

 

“Will you at least stay and eat with me?” Brendon asks softly. Patrick nods although he knows it’s a bad idea, can see from the way Brendon’s eyes flame that he’s imagining collapsing into Patrick’s bed, imagining persuading him with searing kisses, an inquisitive, talented mouth on his cock and a tight hole to sink it into. Patrick also knows that isn’t going to happen. Not tonight. Never again. It can’t.

 

But they can eat baba ghanoush, tabbouleh and labneh scooped up with warm lavash, feast on falafel and stuffed vine leaves and mountains of delicious, marinated olives. He knows he shouldn’t but he indulges in baklava for dessert, laughs as Brendon swipes away the syrupy crumbs from the corners of Patrick's lips with the pad of his thumb before sweeping them into his own mouth. It would have been nice to have this all of the time, his heart hurts a little at the thought that he won’t.

 

He waves away Brendon’s offer to pay and settles the bill, watches as dark eyes blaze at him from over the table.

 

“Am I coming back to your place or are you coming to my hotel?” Brendon asks casually. “I’m at The Peninsula.”

 

Patrick smiles at the memories that stirs. Less than two years ago but it feels like a lifetime, feels like reaching back to shitty microphones and a broken-down van. He takes Brendon’s hand across the table and squeezes gently, holds his gaze as he speaks.

 

“Neither, Bren,” he murmurs. There’s a flash of hurt across Brendon’s features but he covers it quickly with his easy smile. “I don’t want to lose you, which is exactly why I’m not letting myself have you.”

 

“I don’t understand,” Brendon frowns in confusion, the smile slipping away. “We’ve always fucked around.”

 

“That was before I knew you had feelings for me,” Patrick sighs, before he realised _he_ had feelings for Brendon that he now needs to crush down with all of the others. “I’m not good in a relationship, I fuck up.”

 

“ _They_ fucked up,” Brendon corrects him fiercely, fire dancing in dark eyes. “You’re a fucking great guy, Patrick.”

 

“Debateable,” Patrick shrugs with nonchalance he doesn’t really feel. “But the end result is the same and people get hurt. _I_ get hurt. I don’t… I don’t want to get hurt again, I don’t think I’d… I’m not sure I’d make it through. We can still be friends, but nothing more.”

 

“I’ll wait until you’re ready,” Brendon smiles, a crooked little twitch of lips that Patrick aches to kiss. “I can wait as long as you need me too.”

 

“Fuck,” he huffs out a deep breath. “Don’t say that, you’re twenty-one. You’re not allowed to sit around waiting for a day that’s never gonna come with a man old enough to be your-”

 

“Cool uncle?” Brendon provides with a smirk. Patrick nods and laughs quietly, Brendon’s brow creases into a frown before he continues. “But I will. I’ll wait. Because I love you.”

 

“You don’t,” Patrick stands and presses a lingering kiss to Brendon’s lips over the table. Brendon rises to his feet without hesitation, cupping Patrick’s face in his hands and drawing him closer, pressing his tongue into Patrick’s mouth like he’s memorising the taste, the feel. Patrick realises, stomach dropping, that Brendon’s lips are damp and salty with tears. He hauls back after a moment, breathless. “Stay in touch?”

 

“No,” Brendon shakes his head. “I’ll be waiting. You’ll call me when you’re ready.”

 

“I won’t Bren,” Patrick insists, voice cracking. “I guess… I guess this is goodbye, then?”

 

“I’ll keep waiting,” Brendon smiles faintly but his eyes are brimmed with tears. Patrick feels his heart shatter as he strokes Brendon’s cheek lightly, tries to memorise him exactly as he is right down to the ridiculous jacket. He presses another soft kiss to his lips, doesn’t give a fuck if anyone is staring at them crying and kissing in the middle of the damn restaurant. 

 

Before he can leave, before he can stagger away from the table with tears blurring his vision and his heart nothing more than a heavy ache in the centre of his chest, Brendon presses something into his hand. A CD with a single word scrawled on it in Brendon’s scruffy handwriting.

 

_Hallelujah._

 

“It’s a song,” he explains quietly, dark eyes suddenly serious. Patrick nods dumbly, he knows it’s a fucking song, he’s not an idiot. He’s not sure if he said that out loud. “No, it’s not _that_ song, it’s a song I wrote. One of the songs I wrote about you… For you? I don’t know. I wrote it thinking about you. Just listen to it. Or don’t. Like… Just _consider_ listening to it.”

 

Patrick nods again and slides the disc into his jacket pocket. Their lips meet a final time and his heart is cracking, shattering with the force of how much he wants to stay. But he can’t, he fucking _can’t_ , so he drags himself away, squeezes Brendon’s arm with a sad smile.

 

“Goodbye, Bren.”

 

“I love you,” Brendon ruffles his hair and for once he doesn’t flinch away. “I can wait.”

 

He doesn’t reply, just turns and walks away, forces himself not to look back as he hails a cab and climbs inside. Brendon’s safer away from him, he reminds himself, this is absolutely the correct decision to make. He knows with a certainty that makes his mouth dry and his heart pound in his chest that he isn’t close to worthy of the love of someone like Brendon. He knows exactly the kind of love he deserves, exactly whose arms he’ll drift back to in time and he can’t. He _can’t_.

 

He takes a few deep, steadying breaths, closes his eyes and feels his heartbeat slow. He’s okay. He feels… _peaceful_ , as he leans back in the backseat of the cab and watches the bright lights of Chicago roll past the window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here's the thing. We have _one_ chapter to go and I'm so fucking nervous about it. It would be absolutely amazing if you could let me know how you're enjoying it so far and if I could hit 100 kudos before this thing ends then I think I could die happy. I promise you I'm almost done fucking with you. One more week...
> 
> Once again, thank you, thank you, _thank you_ for taking the time to read. And remember... It's almost the weekend so keep on smiling!


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Finale**  
>  fɪˈnɑːli,fɪˈnɑːleɪ/  
>  _noun_  
>  the last part of a piece of music, an entertainment, or a public event, especially when particularly dramatic or exciting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I genuinely can't believe we're at the final chapter. Seriously, I'm going to miss this _so_ much. I'm ridiculously nervous, I've written and rewritten this chapter at least four or five times but this, _this_ , is definitely the ending that I feel it needs. I hope you enjoy it. 
> 
> As always, the beautiful artwork is by the immensely talented Das_verlorene_Kind. Please go to her blog at http://das-verlorene-kind.tumblr.com/ and take a look at all of her other incredible work!

 

Pete misses Patrick with an acuteness that makes his gut ache if he thinks about it too much. He misses him more than he thought it was possible for one human being to miss another. Misses him with sharp intensity that surpasses any other kind of pain he’s felt before.

 

It's been years since it went to shit, since everything crumbled down around him and he realised just what he was losing just that little too late. He'd scrambled for purchase against the slippery edges of their relationship but it was like grabbing at jello and it slid, messy and wet, through his fingers.

 

They didn’t speak for two years. Not a call, not a text, not an email or a fucking tweet. Patrick might as well have been dead. Selfishly, Pete had decided that would have been better - he could have stood at a grave and Patrick wouldn't have been able to stop him.

 

Then as suddenly as the silence fell, it lifted. A text message one June afternoon.

 

_I don't think it can ever be the same. But I think we can talk._

 

So he called with fumbling fingers, aching to hear that voice - that fucking golden voice - once again. They talked for four hours. Patrick told him he needed to break old habits, to sever old dependencies and work out who the fuck he actually was if not just Martin's brother, Pete's best friend and singer of Fall Out Boy. They had cried, Pete stammering out apologies and Patrick telling him not to, that it was done. Pete wanted to beg him to come to LA, to show him he'd changed and that he could be whatever Patrick needed of him.

 

He found he didn’t know how to phrase it, couldn’t find the words that weren’t clumsy and awkward, heavy with the knowledge that whatever he could offer would be far too little served up pathetically late. Patrick sounded peaceful, he sounded content, he sounded strong and a little more sure of himself and most of all he sounded _happy._

 

Are you happy? He asked in desperation, hating himself for hoping for a hole in Patrick's contentment, for praying he'd tell him he wasn't. _Yeah, I think I am_ , he sounded surprised. Like he didn't think he should be. The knife twisted a little further into Pete's heavy, battle-scarred heart. The words danced on the tip of his tongue, the _I should haves_ and the _I never got tos_ but he knew they weren’t his to say. He knows Patrick could have replied with _you didn’t tell me_ and you had the chance and he couldn’t have brought himself to listen to it.

 

When Patrick asked how he was doing he forced a smile into his voice, told him he was fine and it was sort of true. There were bands on the side, projects and writing and modelling and the various things he did to keep his days busy. When Patrick asked how the kids were he gushed about glowing school reports and Bronx playing soccer and something adorably sweet Saint said at the weekend. When he asked about Meagan he fell quiet. _Oh,_ Patrick murmured with understanding and concern in his voice that Pete didn’t want to fucking hear, _I’m so sorry._

 

He realised in that moment, with clarity that took his breath away that this was all wrong, he was supposed to pity Patrick, he was supposed to be the together one, the strong one, the one that had it all go right. If Patrick had dealt with seventeen years of this sense of crushing worthlessness without falling apart, then Pete knew he had no right to complain whatsoever. 

 

 _Why didn’t you…_ Patrick had trailed off and taken a deep breath before continuing, _why did we never end up together?_ Pete thought about that for a long time, the silence stretching endlessly between them broken by only by their breathing and then, _because I was a fucking fool._

 

They said their goodbyes and he cried though he wasn’t sure why.

 

Now things aren’t the same. The easy friendship is gone and what’s left behind seems fragile as delicate glass, as though it could shatter if he clings on too tightly so he’s gentle and wary, their conversations are pleasant but superficial. It’s not enough, it’ll never be enough, but it has to be sufficient because he can’t bear to push him away again. 

 

He realises that he took Patrick for granted, that he assumed the kid would always be waiting for him, bright and golden and hopeful, until he was ready to make the step. He realises he wasn’t willing to deny himself any of the things he felt he deserved, any of the people he felt he should have, as he always believed Patrick would stay. _Until I’m ready_ had been his mantra but now he is and Patrick, rock solid, dependable little Patrick, isn’t around, isn’t waiting, isn’t hurting.

 

Pete’s happy that Patrick is happy. He just wishes it was with him.

 

***

 

She's at a gallery in Chicago when she sees him. At first she thinks she's imagining things; she's thought she's seen him so many times over the past six years but it's always been someone else with the same strawberry blond hair, someone else with thick-framed glasses, someone else in a dorky sweater and cap pulled low. But he turns, as if drawn by the weight of her gaze and their eyes meet - it's him.

 

"Hayley?" He greets her as he steps around the pockets of people between them.

 

"Patrick!" He looks... amazing. Oh, his hair is threaded with white around the temples and there are more lines gathering around his eyes but they sparkle as he smiles and draws her into a hug, kissing her cheek lightly. He's been hitting the gym, she realises, his body feels leaner, toned under his expensive shirt. Still has that soft roundness to his stomach though, she notes with a smile.

 

"Wow, it's been what? Five years?" He steps back, presses his hands into his pockets as he looks her up and down.

 

"Six." She replies softly. His eyes flood with sadness for a moment.

 

"How've you been?"

 

"Okay... I mean, good. You know?" She falters. She's not good, not at all. Martin has crumbled without Patrick, spends his time doing the occasional bit of session drumming and shoving whatever money he makes up his nose. He's barely forty but looks sixty. She wants to tell Patrick about how hard it's been raising a child with a man that doesn't want to be a father, doesn't want her but is too codependent to step away. She wants to tell him she's terrified to leave because she doesn't know what he'll do if he's left alone. "You?"

 

"Good. _Great."_ He grins and rubs the back of his neck like he always did.

 

"So, what have you been doing with yourself?" She asks, more for something to say than anything else.

 

"Oh, you know. Producing. Songwriting." He shrugs shyly. "I've got my own label now. I stay busy."

 

"Always music," she observes. He smiles, nods. It's agony.

 

They lapse into awkward silence for a moment and she wonders how it came to this. This man, this wonderful man, that she used to have so much fun with, that she could talk to for hours, reduced to a stranger.

 

"How.... How's Martin?" He asks quietly and she can tell the name still hurts him.

 

"Oh, you know, where we expected him to be," she tries to laugh lightly but it's hollow. Dead or in jail is probably where Patrick expects him to be. In truth she thinks it's only a matter of time.

 

"Right... Yeah." He runs a hand through his hair. The cut suits him, she thinks absently, makes it look thicker on top, makes him look younger. He looks... He looks really good. Hindsight is a wonderful thing, she's had six years to consider her actions with the twins. Six years to draw the conclusion that Martin never loved _her,_ he only ever loved Patrick and did the only thing he knew to keep his brother alone. Splitting them up wouldn't have been sufficient, no, that would have left scope for a reconciliation or someone to take her place. Martin wanted Patrick all to himself and went to any means necessary to make that so. Now it seems they're doomed to make one another unhappy, a life sentence in exchange for their selfish, destructive behaviour.

 

She tries to read his expression, tries to see if there’s any of the old warmth there in his eyes, wonders if he still wants her, if he’d still be with her. For a moment she imagines leaving Martin, taking Audrey and having Patrick fix everything once again. She could tell him the truth - that she and Martin have never been able to add a second child to their family, though god knows she's grateful for it. She could tell him the dates of Audrey's conception match up beautifully with that last time the three of them were together. She can never prove it but she suspects… There’s no sign of a wife with him. Maybe if she tells him her unshakeable belief that he's a father, _Audrey's_ father, perhaps she can persuade him to take her back. Maybe they can be happy.

 

"Patrick?" She begins hesitantly. His eyes flick to hers behind his glasses. This is it, it's now or never. "I was wondering if maybe-"

 

"Patrick, the baby exploded," she's dropped from his attention as though she's completely inconsequential. He pivots towards the voice and so does she. It's the stroller she notices first; expensive, top of the range, something that's been researched to death by a doting parent.

 

Then she sees the man that spoke. He’s handsome, taller than Patrick though that’s not exactly uncommon, thick dark hair in a stylish cut and piercing brown eyes. He's frowning into the stroller, dark brows knitted together, a diaper bag slung over his shoulder. He's wearing a white button down that clings to his slim frame and tight jeans that make his legs look impossibly long and as Patrick stands close to him and reaches into the stroller, she notes absently that they look good together.

 

Then as Patrick laughs, squeezes the man’s hand with undisguised affection, it hits her - they _are_ together.

 

"Brendon, this is... This is Hayley. Martin's wife." She knows in the cool look that she receives that Patrick's told him everything. "Hayley this is Brendon. My husband."

 

His husband. He's married. Brendon? Of course, Brendon Urie. She’s been away from the music scene for so long, her life revolving around keeping everything going for her daughter, that it’s easy to overlook celebrity gossip. She's so glad she was interrupted before she humiliated herself.

 

"Hey, nice to meet you." She holds out a hand that Brendon shakes politely. "I didn't realise you'd gotten married..."

 

"Yeah." He pulls a little self-deprecating face holds up his left hand where his wedding ring catches the light. "Four years. He puts up with me somehow, don't you?"

 

"Luckiest guy in the world," Brendon grins and her heart lurches as he catches Patrick's hand before he can lower it, brushes a kiss to his knuckles. Brendon knew, she realises, Brendon recognised Patrick for what he is and snapped him up and she’s a goddamn fool for not doing the same thing.

 

"Are you babysitting?" She asks absently, nodding towards the stroller.

 

"No." Patrick frowns, clearly irritated at the assumption and she suddenly feels very stupid. "He's ours. Byron."

 

"Oh, right, of course. Congratulations," she forces a smile onto her face. Leans to look into the stroller but pauses as he tenses. He doesn't want her getting too close but she tries anyway. "So I guess he's... My nephew."

 

"Yeah," Patrick smiles faintly. "I guess he is."

 

"Babe, we should probably leave if we're gonna make our reservation..." Brendon trails off pointedly.

 

"Oh, hey, I should be leaving too." She offers with a bright smile that she's certain doesn't reach her eyes. "Nice to meet you Brendon."

 

"Right..." Patrick smiles sadly. But not like he used to when his smiles were filled with pain and longing. No, this time she recognises it when she sees it, his smile is filled with pity. He pities her. "Just... Take care of yourself, okay?"

 

"Yep." She has to leave. Needs to get outside before the tears drown her. She turns and presses through the crowd, makes it twenty feet before she hears him.

 

"Hayley?" She turns and he's right behind her, Brendon and the baby back in the gallery. For a moment her heart thunders with hope - they’ve opened their relationships before, maybe he wants to do it again. It wouldn’t be the same but… It would be _something_ warm and positive in her life. But when he speaks it's with absolute finality. "It was good to see you."

 

He means _I won't see you again._

 

Somehow, she makes it to the car before the tears come.

 

***

 

“Look at _all_ these pictures little guy,” Brendon bounces the baby in his arms gently as he walks him along the hallway, pausing at the framed photographs ranged along the wall.

 

There are so many. Six years worth of memories that he has no idea how they’ve crammed in, convinced they must have needed twice as long for all of their experiences, all of their moments. The two of them with Penny, their pomeranian, kneeling in the backyard side by side with her scooped in their arms as she licked at Patrick’s cheek. It was the day they moved into this house, their house. The two of them in black tie at some awards ceremony, smiling at the camera, Brendon’s hand on Patrick’s thigh, if he’s remembering correctly, he won that night and Patrick blew him in the bathroom to celebrate, the knees of his suit left dusty and grey. Brendon at a beach bar in Thailand, bare-chested, tanned pale gold, sunglasses reflecting Patrick back into the shot, his grin peeking out below the camera. Patrick scowling, hair a mess and eyes squinted where Brendon had poked him until he woke up, waiting with the camera to click the second he opened his eyes. Patrick hates that picture. Brendon’s amazed every time he comes home that it is isn’t conspicuously missing from the wall.

 

There are literally dozens more, the frames a glorious mess of different styles and sizes that somehow fit together. They remind Brendon of himself and Patrick, complementing one another perfectly even though at first glance they look like they shouldn’t match.

 

He recalls stumbling, tired and confused, from his bed whilst someone hammered on his front door like they'd break the fucking thing down. It was eight months after his disastrous declaration of love but he’d remained true to his word, he’d waited. Patrick had stood on the doorstep, cap clutched in his hands as he greeted Brendon with a wall of nervous chatter, for all the world as though the conversation in Kurah had taken place seconds previously, _okay fine, we can try but you need to move to Chicago because that's where I feel comfortable and you need to quit smoking, it irritates my asthma. You'll have to keep “us” quiet, I'm not ashamed I just… I want some privacy for a while and-_

 

He silenced him with a kiss, heart melting as Patrick stretched up to cover the height difference and he was able to whisper in his ear, _it's four in the fucking morning you tiny fucking dictator, come to bed, we can discuss the details over breakfast._

 

The details, it turned out, were surprisingly simple. He moved to Chicago. He quit smoking. And if Patrick sometimes makes a reference to 80s TV that leaves Brendon baffled then he lets it go. And if Brendon uses some piece of twitter based lexicon that Patrick doesn’t understand then he quietly googles it and drops it into conversation dramatically out of context for the next three weeks. 

 

They’re great now though it wasn’t easy in the beginning. Patrick would relapse frequently, Brendon would find him curled up and sobbing in the shower, scratching at himself, pulling out his hair, struggling to breathe with another anxiety attack. There were the times he would fall silent for days, refusing to get out of bed and all Brendon could do was climb in with him and hold him close, reassure him it was all okay. There were the days he would stare wistfully at pictures of Martin or Pete or the band, lower lip trembling as he fought back tears. He suggested therapy but Patrick just shook his head and asked how the fuck he could tell a therapist the truth about his life and if he didn’t tell the full truth well, what would be the point?

 

So Brendon did his best to be all things - lover, partner, best friend, confidante and therapist - and slowly, so very slowly, Patrick seemed to heal. The outbursts grew further apart and seem to be behind them now, though he can still sense a hollow sadness sometimes just below the surface that Patrick just won’t let go.

 

He lingers at his favourite photograph, taken on their wedding day. It was a creeper shot, snapped by Joe when they had no idea he was there and it looks beautiful in black and white against the black frame. They were laughing about something, fingers loosely twined together. The monochrome doesn’t show the hot pink of his jacket against the grey of Patrick’s - _“I swear to god, Bren, you’re such a fucking gay.” “Oh yeah? Maybe I’ll add GINASFS in gold sequins across the back…” “It wasn’t a synonym, asshole, it was a noun...”_ \- but it does capture the look in Patrick’s eyes, the adoration, the affection. Brendon looks much the same, eyes locked on his new husband, hand halfway to cup his cheek and draw him in for a kiss. Yeah. Brendon loves that picture.

 

Patrick has never shown the slightest inclination to invite anyone else into their bed. It worried Brendon in the beginning, he panicked that he’d never be enough for Patrick, that he’d always crave another outlet, another partner. But when he raised it, hesitantly, Patrick just pressed a kiss to his lips, whispered _you’re enough, Bren_ and took him to bed. He looks at him now, handsome and healthy and relaxed and feels the same warm rush of love he always feels when he looks at his husband. He got so lucky. Even if Patrick is a grouchy little bitch most of the time.

 

“Is this straight?” Patrick is frowning at the spirit level against the wall. “I mean, it says it is, but…”

 

“Looks good to me,” Brendon grins, squeezes Patrick’s ass playfully. “What do _you_ think, Byron? Did daddy do a good job? He did!”

 

“Both hands on the baby, please,” Patrick reprimands him sharply before hefting the frame from the floor in front of him and lifting the wire over the screws he’s fixed into the wall. “Ta da!”

 

He moves to stand by Brendon, slips his arm around his waist and drops a kiss onto Byron’s head. This is the first time Brendon has seen the picture, taken of the three of them the day they brought their son home. They’re sat on the couch, Byron laid along the length of Patrick’s thighs as he cradles him, pale hands cupped under the back of the baby’s head. Brendon’s arm is tight around Patrick’s shoulders, the fingers of his free hand feather soft against the Byron’s cheek. Their heads are very close together, Patrick’s strawberry blond a sharp contrast to his own chocolate brown, both of them gazing at Byron like he’s the second fucking coming. Joe, he has to admit, has a talent with a camera.

 

“You like it?” Patrick asks, voice filled with soft hopefulness.

 

“Dude,” Brendon wishes he had a hand free to swipe at his eyes. “It’s gorgeous.”

 

“For real?” Patrick smiles shyly at the picture once more before turning again, eyes catching Brendon’s. “Oh come _on,_ don’t cry! You… You’ll make _me_ cry, then the _baby’s_ gonna cry and… Penny can’t cope with this!”

 

They both glance at the dog simultaneously. She looks up at the mention of her name, pats her tail lightly against the floor three times, licks her paws and yawns before falling back to sleep in a patch of sunshine by the front door. They’re laughing and crying together as Patrick hugs him awkwardly around Byron, the baby blinking up at them with the serious, deep blue eyes of a newborn. Brendon swears he looks like Patrick even without a drop of his DNA.

 

When they discussed children, Patrick asked if Brendon wanted to use a surrogate, have a biological child of his own. He confessed in a small voice that he had no intention of producing his own biological child, too terrified that he’d create another Martin. Brendon held him close and let him cry and reassured him in a whisper that they could always look into adoption. Patrick smiled, watery through his tears, and they’d begun making enquiries the next day.

 

Six months later they were matched with a young teenage mother who had no intention of keeping her baby. She was pregnant with a little boy, the social worker told them, due in four months. They met her and she liked them, agreed that the baby could be placed with them at birth. Brendon wanted to be there for the birth but Patrick told him to leave the poor kid alone, that they were getting this baby for a lifetime, they could wait a few hours to let her say goodbye without them there.

 

Now here they are, Byron is seven weeks old and just about the most perfect baby imaginable as far as Brendon’s concerned. He already has ideas about a brother or sister for him. Maybe a few, they could fill the house with kids and love and laughter.

 

“Fuck, if we hadn’t done it already, I’d ask you to marry me,” Patrick mumbles into Brendon’s shoulder. He adjusts his hold on Byron, settles him in the crook of one arm so he can use his free arm to crush Patrick to his chest.

 

“You told me you’d watch your language when the baby was here,” he reminds him, laughs at the _fuck off, Bren_ that Patrick sob-giggles into his shirt and addresses their son. “Your daddy has a foul mouth.”

 

“Shut up, Brendon.” He silences him with a kiss, his tongue fluttering briefly against Brendon’s.

 

“You know there’s still time to change his name,” Brendon murmurs thoughtfully as they pull apart.

 

“We’re not naming him Brentrick,” Patrick’s voice is firm.

 

“But-”

 

“We are _not_ naming him _Brentrick,”_ he leans back to scowl and all Brendon can do is laugh, heart bursting with love as he traces his thumb over the arch of Patrick’s scarred right eyebrow.

 

“How about-”

 

“No. Not even as a middle name,” Patrick huffs dramatically.

 

“You’re absolutely no fun at all.”

 

*

 

Patrick lies in bed listening to Brendon breathing next to him. The kid - because Patrick will always think of him as “the kid”, even now at twenty-nine - sleeps the same way he does everything; loudly, flamboyantly, ensuring everyone in the room knows about it. He sprawls on top of the comforter, a limb pointing at each corner of the room, his thick, dark hair a mess and deep, rumbling snores echoing from his chest. He's drooling, Patrick notices with an affectionate smile, swiping it away with the pad of his thumb.

 

This absolutely isn’t where he imagined he would be at this stage in his life, married to his cute twink, their son asleep in the next room. In honesty, he’d always imagined he would spend the rest of his life chasing happiness on the edges of Martin and Hayley’s marriage. Contentment curls in his belly as he rolls onto his side to look at his husband in the early morning light. The sun catches in his hair, weaving highlights of orange and gold amongst the burnished mahogany. Patrick’s not sure he’s ever looked more beautiful.

 

Happiness has always been a fleeting thing for Patrick, something he barely dares to touch in case it shatters under the force of his grasp. But Brendon is real and solid and it's been seven years and maybe, just maybe, he should start to relax. To fully appreciate the rest of their lives together.

 

That in mind, he leans across the pillow and presses his nose to the dark hair under Brendon’s arm, heaving in a lungful of his scent. Brendon jerks, ticklish, and snatches his arm down from the pillows, wrapping it over his stomach with a grumble, eyelids fluttering slightly. Patrick smiles and reaches up, brushing his lips softly against Brendon's. Brendon twitches, stirs, swats at him with a grunt.

 

"'S'too early, Trick," he mumbles, thick and slurred. "Jus' g’back t'sleep..."

 

Patrick smiles, slips down the bed and takes Brendon's half hard cock into his mouth. This time Brendon's lips twitch up at the corners, though his eyes stay closed.

 

"'Mon Trick... s'middle o'the night... g'back t'sleep..." But his fingers are carding through Patrick's hair, thighs parting and cock swelling under his lips and tongue. He pulls off with a wet noise, presses a kiss to the head of Brendon's dick and slides back up over his body, grinning as Brendon's slim, pale legs slip around his waist. "Dude, _Byron’s_ sleeping... _I'm_ sleeping... Why aren't _you_ fucking sleeping?"

 

"Quit complaining," Patrick murmurs against Brendon's mouth, sucking and nipping at his lips until they part and he can lick at the softness of his tongue, taste the hidden, pink, delicate places of his mouth, test the hard ridges of his palate and teeth. Brendon shifts beneath him just right, cradling Patrick's body in the bracket of his hipbones and thighs, raising his ass slightly so their cocks press hard against one another. His fingers tighten in Patrick's hair - _be fucking careful man, you know it's going thin_ \- and his eyes flutter open, dark as bitter chocolate and just as sweet, creasing at the corners as he focuses on Patrick with a sleepy grin.

 

"Now who's complaining?" He sighs softly, a rolling stretch extending his spine and pressing him up against Patrick, who presses right back down and begins to grind lazily against his cock. Brendon groans, low and soft, the noise rumbling up through his chest as his hands slide the full length of Patrick's spine, fingertips digging into the soft flesh of his ass.

 

They slide and rub against one another, Brendon's hands slip to cup his face, dragging him close as he sucks on his tongue, his heels scrabbling against the back of his thighs as they grind together. Patrick loves this, loves the urgency it sparks in Brendon as he struggles to scratch the itch, loves the slow build of fire in his belly, loves the way Brendon will employ every trick he knows to coax him along.

 

He rolls his head to the side as Brendon assaults his neck, biting gently at the join of his shoulder, licking at his pulse point and peppering soft, teasing kisses along his jaw. All the while, he mutters filth into Brendon’s ear, whispers about how fucking hot he is, how hard he makes him. He tells him how much he loves his cock, loves the way it looks when it's dark and stiff for him, loves it when it smells of Brendon's musk and Patrick's mouth, loves the way it tastes when he's desperate and leaking and tied to the headboard. He tells him he loves his ass, all pink and pretty for him, that he loves the way Brendon moans for him as he thrusts into him, loves the noises Brendon makes as he tastes him, presses his tongue deep inside. He tells him that he loves his lips, loves the way they whisper to him in dark, sweaty rooms, loves the way they fall apart as he comes, loves the way they press to his in hot, fever kisses as he fucks him, loves the way they wrap around his cock. Brendon is tense and moaning beneath him, hips rolling desperately against Patrick's, his prick hot and hard against Patrick's belly.

 

"Come for me, baby," Patrick whispers, watching his husband intently as he groans, tips his head back against the pillows and ruts against him frantically. 

 

"Oh god, Patrick," he whines, digging his fingers into the hair at the nape of Patrick's neck.

 

They fall apart together tangled close, a sweaty mess of limbs and lips and come as they collapse, gasping, onto the sheets. He sinks down into Brendon’s body, lets him take his full weight and kisses at anywhere he can reach, his lips brushing Brendon’s ear, his neck, his jaw and those full, soft lips. 

 

"I love you so much and _that_ was awesome," Brendon sighs into his ear as he calms. "But seriously, can I go back to sleep now?"

 

"You're supposed to be young and virile," Patrick teases, nipping at his ear with his teeth. “Where’s your stamina?”

 

"Yeah but you're _old,”_ Brendon grumbles. “Old people _like_ to get up at fucking ass o'clock." 

 

"I'm only forty-two," Patrick objects mildly. He doesn't want to move, Brendon still has him cradled close to his body and he wants to stay there forever, safe and warm and soft. Brendon chuckles and closes his eyes, Patrick drops his head down onto his husband’s shoulder for a few moments, breathes him in before murmuring softly. "Bren?"

 

"Hmm?"

 

"Are you happy?" He leans up on an elbow again and regards Brendon with trepidation. "I mean... You were basically a kid when we got together. You don't feel as though... Like I cheated you of anything?"

 

"Patrick Urie," he begins, punctuating each syllable with a soft kiss to Patrick's lips. Patrick still thrills with the name, the last thing he needed to lift him out of the fierce coldness of Martin's possession and set him, blinking and bewildered, into the warmth and security of Brendon's love. "I love you, I love our life, I love our son... Get out of your head and enjoy it, old man. We don't get enough time to waste it on the shit that went wrong and the stuff we didn't do. We've squeezed more living into seven years than some people get in a lifetime. Let's just... Enjoy it. Enjoy us."

 

"You're right," Patrick sighs and finally, gratefully, he lets the happiness engulf him, lets it wash over him and overpower him as the tears come. Brendon holds him close and strokes his hair until they slow and stop and Patrick can hiccup to him softly. "I'm sorry. I just... I'm okay. I'm good. These are _good_ tears."

 

"I know," Brendon smiles and rubs the small of his back reassuringly. They stay like that for a time, the room growing brighter around them, until a loud, insistent voice starts up in the next room.

 

“Dada! Dada! Dada!” 

 

“All yours, Dada,” Brendon grins, face alight with mischief.

 

“You don’t _know_ he’s yelling for me,” Patrick grumbles, his cock, stomach and thighs are wet and sticky with sweat and come as he rolls to his feet. He cleans himself up with Brendon's discarded shirt, ignoring the huff from the bed and drags on his sweats. “I swear he calls you Dada too.”

 

“That was a _Patrick_ dada,” Brendon insists, rolling onto his stomach with a sigh.

 

“Hmm,” Patrick makes his way to Byron’s room, throwing open the door and scooping the toddler out of his bed.

 

“Daddy!” He shrieks and Patrick smiles - Dada his ass.

 

“Come on, little guy, time to get some breakfast,” he nuzzles against his son’s soft, mouse brown curls, heaves in the smell of sleepy baby. “Cereal? Eggs? Waffles?”

 

“Cookies,” Byron smiles, grabbing at Patrick’s cheeks with a giggle.

 

“Not on the luckiest morning of your _life,_ little dude,” Patrick laughs, heart swelling with love as he pops him onto a chair at the kitchen table and heads to the fridge.

 

“Hey cupcakes, large and small,” Brendon pads into the kitchen in his shorts, hair a glorious mess, scrubbing at his eyes with a yawn as he drops a kiss onto Byron’s nose.

 

“Dada!” Byron greets him with enthusiasm.

 

“ _Told_ you,” Patrick grins victoriously.

 

“Byron,” Brendon sits at the chair next to the toddler and points to his chest. “Who’s this?”

 

“Daddy,” Byron nods sagely.

 

“And who’s that?” He points to Patrick, the grin of victory already dancing across his lips.

 

“Daddy,” Byron giggles. Brendon frowns. Patrick smirks and leans back against the counter, folds his arms across his chest with an arched eyebrow.

 

“Okay,” Brendon tries again. “Where’s Dada? Where’d he go? Can you point to Dada?”

 

Byron points to Penny with a shriek, “Dada!”

 

“Dumb as a rock,” Brendon sighs with affection, ruffling their son’s hair. He stands and crosses the kitchen, sliding his arms around Patrick’s waist and nuzzling into his neck with a content sigh. Patrick feels warmth suffuse through him like hot coffee on a winter morning. “So, basically, what I'm saying is, you're stuck with me, dude. And it's your own fault for saying yes when I asked you to marry me. Now, let me ask _you._ Are you happy?"

 

Patrick mulls it over as he stares at the neat row of cereal boxes in the cabinet. His garish Lucky Charms next to Brendon’s sensible Wheaties next to Byron’s Cheerios. _Is_ he happy? He knows he’s warm and safe and loved. He knows he adores Brendon so fiercely it makes his chest ache. There are scars carved so deeply on his heart he knows they’ll never heal fully but the pain is bearable, it’s controlled. And if he misses Martin sometimes, he supposes that’s okay, that’s normal. If he occasionally feels a pang when he gets a stupid text from Pete, he guesses that’s to be expected as well. Overwhelmingly, he knows he feels _okay._ He feels _good._ Yeah. He is. He’s happy.

 

"Blissfully," he nods with certainty, lacing their fingers and bringing Brendon’s knuckles to his lips. "Let's do this."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course he ended up with Brendon! Come on! Brendon is literally-- _literally_ \--the only person that's worthy of Patrick, the only one that stuck by him through his darker moments, the only one that wants him regardless of any of the frankly ridiculous amounts of baggage he might drag along with him.
> 
> This might not be the Peterick ending of your dreams, but dammit it's the ending Patrick _deserves!_. I really hope you've enjoyed my little tale and I'm sad to bid it all farewell. Last chance to tell me what you've thought in the little box underneath!
> 
> And if I may get a little sappy, thank you all so much for coming along with me on this. I really hope you've enjoyed it.
> 
> Almost the weekend kids, keep smiling!


End file.
